


A Kind of Paradise

by namizaela



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Arthur Morgan, Brotherly Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Growing Up, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:34:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 32,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25695862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/namizaela/pseuds/namizaela
Summary: John doesn’t understand, but he nods anyway. Another breeze blows through the air, and he shivers without meaning to. The ground is ice-cold against his bare feet. It’s fine, though--he’s used to it.Suddenly there’s a warm weight on his head, and he reaches up to feel leather and rope. It’s a hat, worn and soft with age. He looks at Arthur, whose head is now uncovered.“Keep it for the night, kid,” he says. There’s a faint smile on his face. “That little mop of hair ain’t gonna keep you warm.”Snapshots from John and Arthur's relationship. (Set before and during canon.)
Relationships: Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston, Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith, John Marston & Arthur Morgan
Comments: 95
Kudos: 207
Collections: A Kind of Paradise





	1. Come and Take It

**Author's Note:**

> A few things before we get started: this fic is a collection of loosely connected oneshots that function well on their own, but work best when read together. The Arthur/Charles stuff starts about halfway through, and although this fic is John-centric and from John's POV, it's somewhat significant (especially toward the end)!  
> Since every chapter goes forward in time, I'll provide context in the chapter summary if things are unclear (but hopefully they are). I'll also provide trigger warnings in the chapter endnotes, and please lmk if I should add something as a warning. This is a pretty tame fic though!  
> Finally, although the bulk of my motivation to write stemmed from the fact that the game absolutely destroyed me, I'd like to credit [gaslight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaslight/pseuds/gaslight) and [pipdepop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipdepop/pseuds/pipdepop) for writing incredible fics about John and Arthur as brothers! If you haven't read their fics...what are you doing?? Go read them now!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John leaves one life, and enters another. (Set when he joins the gang at twelve years old).

Hooves hit the road like a hundred separate crashes of thunder, sending up clouds of filth in their wake. It makes John’s throat burn even more than it already does. The man he’s clutching onto grumbles something under his breath, but John can’t catch what he’s saying.

“What’s your name, boy?” 

It’s the black-haired man who’s talking to him, somehow still effortlessly put-together after the escape they made. He glances over at John from atop his own horse with a kind expression.

Despite the dust choking the air, despite the ghostly, fading pain of the noose around his neck, he answers. “John Marston, sir.” After a moment, he remembers the rudimentary lessons in manners the orphanage had tried to teach him. “Thank you,” he says. “You didn’t have to do that, mister, uh--”

“Dutch Van der Linde,” the black-haired man says back. There’s a self-assured grin on his face, like it’s a regular occurrence for him to swoop in and save street urchins from being hung. “My partner over here is Hosea Matthews--” he gestures over to the wiry, blond man riding next to him, who tips his hat “--and the man who cut you loose is Arthur Morgan.”

The man--Arthur, John corrects himself--briefly glances back over his shoulder. “Hey, hold on a little tighter, kid,” he says. “Can’t have you fallin’ on your neck after Dutch went to all that trouble to save it.”

John does what Arthur asks, mostly because for all the humor in his words, John really is afraid of falling. And Arthur is strong, sitting solidly on his horse despite its wild galloping, the kind of strong that only comes with experience and perseverance. 

John thinks back to only a few hours before. The look on the homesteader’s face when she’d caught him red-handed was funny at first, until she bellowed for her husband to “get out here, there’s a kid stealin’ our eggs” and a huge brick of a man stormed into the field, carrying both a shotgun and a rope. He was lucky, looking back on it now, that the man chose the rope. 

Arthur must have felt the grip around his waist tighten, because after throwing another look over his shoulder and seeing John’s wide eyes, he gives him a lopsided smile. 

“We’re almost to camp, okay?” Arthur says. “Won’t be much longer.”

“Camp? You have a camp?”

His voice is nearly drowned out by the sound of hoofbeats, but somehow Arthur still hears him. “Course we do. Every self-respectin’ outlaw has one.”

Outlaws, John thinks. He’d gone and gotten himself rescued by a gang of outlaws. 

“Is the law tailing us?” Hosea yells through the dust. His voice is thin and reedy, but still clear. 

“Well, if they are, we’ll deal with them!” Dutch yells back. “Ain’t that right, Arthur?”

John, with his cheek squished against Arthur’s back, feels a laugh rumble through him. “One day, that attitude’ll get you killed, old man.”

“Don’t I know it!”

John listens to the men talk and joke, grabbing onto the scratchy linen of Arthur’s shirt. It’s easy to sit like this, feeling the pain from the noose fading into nothingness, his breaths sounding less like gasps with every second. There were worse things that could have happened to him than this, John decides. Much worse things. The ride is over before he knows it.

* * *

It’s later that night when he hears hushed voices coming from Dutch’s big white tent. He’s huddled next to the fire, poking his finger into the dirt and drawing little patterns. Only an hour ago, a woman--Miss Grimshaw--had handed him a whole can of beans with a spoon sticking out for dinner. He hadn’t believed it was all for him. And now, for the first time he can remember, he’s full. Not just full, but satisfied.

“I’m just sayin’, Hosea, we can’t really afford another mouth to feed.” It’s Arthur--the accent gives him away.

A short laugh from Hosea, then “I don’t see what the problem is. We’ve pulled through worse before, haven’t we?”

“Mhm,” Arthur responds. “Barely.”

“And we’ll pull through this time too.” Dutch’s voice leaves no room for debate. 

“We ain’t gonna throw that kid out on the streets,” Hosea says. “We have a chance, Arthur. A chance to give him a better life.”

Arthur exhales a long breath. As John stares into the fire, breath caught in his throat and heart pounding, he speaks again. “This life...I dunno. It ain’t for everyone.”

Before John can strain to hear the rest, Miss Grimshaw comes bustling over with a washcloth. “Don’t you think it’s time you washed up, young man? Or do you plan to go to bed looking like that?”

“Uh…” Personally, John doesn’t see anything wrong with how he looks. It’s not like he ever got the chance to take a bath on the streets. In fact, the dirt feels more like a second skin, a layer of stinking armor that makes him feel safer. Not that he’s going to admit that to anyone.

“Come on,” she says, hauling him up by the elbow and walking him over to a barrel of water. He gives her an unsure look, and she raises her eyebrows and clears her throat. 

The water is clear and cold, and as he timidly splashes it on his cheeks he has to stop himself from pulling a face. “That’s it,” nods Miss Grimshaw. “Just like that. Your skin’ll finally see the light of day, thank the Lord.”

After a few more seconds of unenthusiastic washing, he looks up at her. “Can I stop now?” he asks. Then he adds, “please?”

She scrutinizes him for a moment, then relents. “Oh, alright. Now run off to bed. I laid out your bedroll right next to Arthur’s.”

John scampers away, not heading to where she asked him to but to his spot next to the fire. As he settles down, he tries to pick up any remaining dregs of conversation, but either it’s too quiet or the conversation has ended. A few more minutes pass before he gives up, leaves the fire, and plops himself on the soft material of his bedroll.

There’s even a blanket left for him--ratty and torn with use, but still soft--and he wraps it around him like a cocoon. It helps him feel less exposed. Less vulnerable. Lying down, he can only imagine this is what it feels like to be a king resting in a downy bed.

John knows it’s too good to be true. No one would just take in a kid like him, no strings attached. Especially not criminals. Well, he thinks, if nothing else he can at least enjoy this one night. He engraves everything he’s feeling into his memory--the warm fullness in his stomach, the soft material sandwiched between him and the earth, the surprising smoothness of his face, only revealed after all this time.

Then he sees it--a stack of canned food, piled up on the ground next to the camp wagon. Moonlight reflects off the metal, shining down on the stash like it’s a long-abandoned treasure. There’s no one paying attention. Dutch is holed up in his tent with Hosea, and Miss Grimshaw is nodding off on a crate by the fire. Arthur is nowhere to be seen.

He can sneak off, right now, and no one would be the wiser. He might as well steal some food while he’s at it. If he can take enough, he would be able to get by another two weeks on his own. Part of him feels guilty. But if Dutch is planning on kicking him out, surely he wouldn’t miss a few tins of beans?

Slowly, John extracts himself from his blanket, gets up, and creeps over to the camp wagon. His footfalls are silent, like he’s a ghost floating over the ground instead of a living human. It’s easy for him at this point, more instinctual than deliberate.

His eyes dart over the array of labels, unsure what to take and what to leave, but he eventually stuffs a few cans of preserved peaches down his shirt, just to start. He almost drools at the thought of gorging himself on them--it would be like eating candy. 

He’s slowly reaching for another can when something rustles in the bushes behind him. Biting back a yelp, he whips around, barely keeping the cans under his shirt from thumping on the ground. 

“What the hell are you doin’, boy?” 

It’s Arthur. John’s mind screams at him to run, to get out of there while he still can, so he gives into his instincts and bolts to the right. 

“Hey! Goddamnit, come back here!” John hears footsteps coming after him, getting closer with each second. He leaps over a gnarled root, wincing as his bare feet land on a pebble, and continues running. He’s always been good at this sort of stuff, he thinks, always been good at--

His foot catches on a rock, launching him into the air and causing him to land straight on his face. The cans go flying everywhere, clattering and clanging on the stones sticking out of the earth.

Before he can react, an arm’s pulling him up onto his feet. He struggles against it, but the grip is firm. 

There’s a pause where John doesn’t dare to meet Arthur’s eyes. The cans roll around on the ground before lying still.

“You was stealing food?”

Surprisingly, Arthur doesn’t sound angry. He just sounds amused, and slightly disbelieving. Looks it, too. But John stays stubbornly silent, trying to squish down the hot coil of panic in his stomach. They could kill him for this. No one would miss a street urchin--in fact, people would probably celebrate his death.

Arthur loosens his grip on John’s arm enough so that his fingers barely brush against his shirt. “...If you were still hungry, you could’ve said somethin’.”

“I ain’t hungry,” John mumbles.

“So, did you take a fancy to the labels then? Because I dunno what else is appealin’ about canned food.”

“You don’t want me here.” It comes out before John can stop himself. 

There’s a beat of silence. Then Arthur tilts his head and scoffs. “Now who told you that nonsense?”

“You did. In Dutch’s tent. I heard you.”

The wind rustles the trees around them, sending a chill over John’s skin. His face is dirty again from the fall. He feels disgusting, not only because of that, but because of what he did. Usually he has no problem stealing--in fact, all he does is steal. But for a reason he can’t explain, stealing from these people feels different. It feels wrong. 

“Listen, kid,” Arthur says. Then he sighs. “I’m not gonna lie, we’re tight on money right now. I’m worried. But Dutch was right, back there in the tent.” John’s gaze bores a hole into the ground, so after a pause Arthur keeps speaking. “You know, he always says, we kill folk that need killin’. Rob folk that need robbin’. And we save folk that need savin’.” Arthur slowly lets go of John’s arm. “And--well, right now, you need savin’.”

John narrows his eyes, and the panic dulls. “So…”

“So,” Arthur says slowly, “we ain’t gonna let you go.”

John doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know if he’s dreaming or not, because no one in their right mind would see him stealing from them, catch him, and then offer him a spot in their gang. The world isn’t a charity. So why is this happening to him?

At that moment, Hosea’s voice calls out from a few feet behind them.

“What’s all the fuss about? Some of us are trying to sleep, you know,” he says, picking his way through the bushes. He takes in the scene, and frowns. “Are those...canned peaches?”

John freezes, looking to Arthur. 

“Yeah,” Arthur says quickly, meeting John’s gaze and then looking at Hosea, “I was just showin’ John, uh, how we set up target practice. You know, for shootin’.” He pauses and scratches the back of his head. “Can never start too early.”

Hosea looks thoroughly unconvinced. “Usually we try to practice shooting  _ empty _ cans,” he says. “It’s something people tend not to forget.” When Arthur shows no signs of telling him what he and John really were doing, Hosea sighs and bends down to collect the cans strewn on the ground. 

“I’ll take the liberty of putting these away for you,” he says. “And Arthur? We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

The threat is strict, but somehow still kindly spoken. Still, Arthur seems to shrink in on himself out of pure embarrassment, not even noticing John staring at him. Hosea collects the last can, balances it in his arms, and levels an exasperated look at the two of them.

As Hosea walks back into camp, Arthur groans and runs a hand down his face. “Only an idiot lies to Hosea,” he says. “Remember that.”

“Why’d you take the blame?”

Arthur looks momentarily surprised at the question, then huffs a laugh. “I mean, it kinda makes sense. This whole thing was kinda my fault anyway.”

John doesn’t understand, but he nods anyway. Another breeze blows through the air, and he shivers without meaning to. The ground is ice-cold against his bare feet. It’s fine, though--he’s used to it.

Suddenly there’s a warm weight on his head, and he reaches up to feel leather and rope. It’s a hat, worn and soft with age. He looks at Arthur, whose head is now uncovered.

“Keep it for the night, kid,” he says. There’s a faint smile on his face. “That little mop of hair ain’t gonna keep you warm.”

The hat smells like gunpowder and sweat. It’s too large, and he has to prop the brim up with his fingers to keep it from falling over his eyes, but somehow that’s comforting. 

“And kid?” Arthur says.

“John.”

“John,” he corrects himself, then clears his throat and shifts his weight awkwardly. “I’m sorry. We want you.”

All of John’s clothes are too small for him. The hems of his pants end well above his ankle and his shirts are frayed at the seams. And this hat--it’s not really his, and never will be. But it’s something to grow into. There’s a future in there, somewhere, and tonight it’s like he can reach out and touch it. 

Not waiting for a response, Arthur pats him on the shoulder. “Let’s get you to bed, okay? Or Miss Grimshaw will have our hides come morning.”

“Okay,” John says. He grips the hat and blinks a few times, very quickly, unseen under the brim. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: references to attempted strangulation
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the first chapter!! John really grew on me during the epilogue, and his brotherly relationship with Arthur is very special to me. In this chapter, I tried to write him as less of the man we know him as and more of a vulnerable little kid. I hope that came across--let me know if it did! See you in a few days :)


	2. Small Doses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John struggles while learning to read. (Set before canon.)

Dutch is putting on a patient face, but John can tell he’s just about had it with him. Nevertheless, he places his index finger at the start of the line, right under the big letter. 

“Just try again,” he tells John. “What’s this word?”

John has no idea, but he has to at least pretend to make an effort, so he squints at the page and puts a hand on his chin like he’s seen Hosea do whenever he’s reading the newspaper. Why doesn’t Dutch just give up on him already? He’s spent the whole afternoon trying to decipher a single page of one of Dutch’s books, and he’s gotten nowhere. It doesn’t help that the only books Dutch has are by Evelyn Miller. 

“Careful, John,” comes a drawl from a few feet away. “Wouldn’t want you to strain somethin’.”

“Lay off, Arthur,” he grumbles. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

Arthur simply grins and takes a bite of the apple he’s holding. “I’m just sayin’, you go on squinting like that, you’ll be blind as a bat. And then there really will be no hope of you ever learnin’ to read.”

Dutch heaves a sigh and snaps the book shut. Gone is the mask of patience from before--now he just looks annoyed. He stands up from the crate he was sitting on, dusts off his pants, and shoots a glare at Arthur. 

“If you have time to heckle the boy, Arthur, maybe you could try teaching him too.” And he thrusts the book into Arthur’s hands.

Arthur immediately recoils, as if the book was burning his skin. “Aw, Dutch, you really got the wrong man for the job,” he says. “I mean, I can barely _speak_ English, let alone read it. It’ll be like...like two monkeys tryin’ to teach each other.”

“I’m fully aware of how much English you know,” Dutch says back. “Now, God knows I need a break, so could you please just sit down with him and try to make something stick? I mean, is that too much to ask from you?”

Dutch’s tone makes it very clear that no, it isn’t too much to ask, and that Arthur should just shut up and take the book. So, with a grumbled “yes, Dutch” under his breath, that’s exactly what he does. Dutch thumps Arthur on the shoulder and goes off to his tent, probably to talk to Hosea. Or have a drink.

John can’t help the smug grin on his face as he scoots his crate closer to the one Arthur’s sitting on. While Arthur’s distracted with flipping to a page that’s slightly less confusing than the rest, John snatches the half-eaten apple from his hands and crunches into it.

“Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doin’?”

John takes another bite, relishing the tart taste. Lunch had been an hour ago, and he was already hungry. He chews and swallows, tilting his head at Arthur. “...Eating your apple?” 

“I can see that, you idiot.” After a second, Arthur sighs. “Ah, just finish it. I can see why Dutch up and quit. Hell, I already need a break, and we haven’t even started readin’ yet.”

John just shrugs innocently and takes another bite. The juice runs down his chin and he wipes it away with the back of his hand, leaving both his mouth and his hand a sticky mess. 

Arthur flattens the book on his lap. “Alright,” he says, and points to the first sentence. “Mind tellin’ me what this says?”

Before John can start squinting again, Arthur continues. “And no more of your goddamn charades. If you don’t know a word, just say so.” He stares John in the eye, and John fights the urge to look away. “Think you can handle that?”

“Fine,” John says, his voice defiant. He focuses on the words and sifts through his memory for the meanings attached to them. Arthur, for once, doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t tease him. Just sits, holding the pages down so the wind won’t flip through them.

“The…” John starts. He looks at Arthur for some sort of confirmation that he got it right, and Arthur nods. John takes a deep breath and continues. “Str--uh, strength...of...um…”

A few seconds pass with neither of them saying anything. When it’s clear John isn’t continuing, Arthur points to the next word. “Come on, John. You know this.”

John picks at the old wood underneath him, staring at his feet. He stubbornly clamps his lips together, because if he doesn’t know what the next word says there’s no point in trying. Suddenly a hot rage flashes through him. Why does Dutch insist on forcing him to read when he’s never going to need to anyway? He doesn’t need to read in order to rob from people. Or to kill them. The only thing reading is good for is making him feel stupid.

“Hey. John.” Arthur’s waving a hand in front of his face. “Snap out of it, I don’t got all day. What’s this word mean?”

John looks at Arthur’s finger, which is positioned under the same word as before. His fingers clench into the wood. “Asking me again ain’t gonna make me figure it out.”

There’s a pause, and John angrily crunches into the apple, chews, and swallows. Then Arthur says, “Didn’t I tell you to say somethin’ if you don’t know?”

“...Yeah.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“Because then you’ll think I’m dumb.”

Arthur snorts. “I already think you’re dumb. But that don’t mean Dutch can’t teach you to read. I’m livin’ proof of that.”

That catches John’s attention, and he momentarily forgets his frustration. “Wait, Dutch taught you too?”

“Sure did,” Arthur says. “Lucky for me, good old Mr. Miller hadn’t published anything yet, so I started from Hosea’s newspapers. Still took a damn long time, though. And considerin’ I was a few years older than you, I’d say you ain’t doing half bad.”

“So why’d you join Dutch? What was he like back then? Was Hosea there too? Or Miss Grimshaw?”

At John’s outpouring of questions, Arthur rolls his eyes and points back to the book. “Stop tryin’ to sidetrack me, kid. It ain’t gonna work.”

Curiosity burns in John’s stomach. The last thing he wants right now is to go back to reading, but Arthur looks insistent, slightly impatient, and not unlike how Dutch had looked a while before. 

“Listen, okay?” Arthur says as he points to the word John’s been stuck on. “This means America. You got that? America.” He says it slowly, as if John has a problem with hearing as well as reading.

“America,” John repeats. “Okay.”

“So now we have ‘the strength of America’,” Arthur says. “That’s just about half a sentence! You’re on your way to becoming Dutch’s personal secretary.”

The frustration from earlier floods back into him, and he grits out, “Stop making fun of me! We both know I ain’t good at this stuff.”

John finishes the apple, core and all, and throws it into the woods with a thump. He roughly wipes away the remaining juice from his mouth, spits out a seed, and hugs his knees to his chest. He feels Arthur’s gaze on him, but stubbornly stares at his feet instead of meeting his eyes.

“Aw, hell,” Arthur finally says. “I’ll tell you what. You finish this sentence all by yourself, and I’ll tell you the whole story of how I ran into old Dutch. Every goddamn detail. Alright?”

John can’t help but perk up at that. “Really?”

“Really.”

Somehow, that promise is what spurs him into action. He grabs the book from Arthur’s lap and spreads it out over his knees, bringing his face only inches away from the paper. He’s going to finish this sentence if it’s the last thing he does.

* * *

“A sentence?” Dutch asks, his voice disbelieving. “I leave you two alone for an hour, and all you can manage is a single sentence?”

Arthur, to his credit, looks sheepish. John just grins up at Dutch. Truthfully, the last half hour hadn’t been spent on reading, but on a detailed account of how Dutch and Hosea had scooped a teenage Arthur off the streets, taught him to read, and given him a family. Arthur isn’t much of a storyteller, but John had still been captivated by everything--the impressions of Dutch and Hosea when they’d found him, those first few nights where he’d wondered if he was going to be killed in his sleep, and the months after, when he wondered that less and less.

“It’s one sentence more than he would’ve gotten with you,” Arthur says somewhat lamely.

Dutch just runs a hand through his slicked-back hair and looks pleadingly up at the sky. “And what, may I ask, was the sentence?”

Arthur gives a pointed glance at John, who clears his throat and recites the fruits of his labor in a proud voice. Dutch doesn’t look too impressed, but a pleased smile appears on Arthur’s face, which makes something giddy with excitement erupt in his chest. Maybe this reading thing isn’t so bad after all, he thinks. At least, not in small doses. And with the right motivation.

 _The strength of America lies in its peopl_ e.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John and Arthur have one braincell shared between the two of them :)
> 
> This was really fun to write! It's def my most lighthearted chapter lol. The little references to John and Arthur's backstory sprinkled through the game have so much potential. I hope you liked it!! Let me know what you think :D (thank you to the two people who commented last chapter, you made me ridiculously happy!!)
> 
> Also, just in case anyone noticed, I decided to remove the Major Character Death tag because the death is off-screened (yes I'm talking about Arthur's death). I hope that makes sense!


	3. Sweet Surprises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur gets a letter from Mary. (Set before canon.)

“Come on, Arthur!” John yells. “Come on, come on, come on!” 

Arthur pauses his rummaging through his satchel and glares up at him. “Will you give me a minute? Jesus.”

John fidgets in the saddle, as if squirming around will somehow make Arthur move faster. For the first time in his life, he’s riding into town on Old Boy, a mottled grey horse Hosea had found in a field, riderless and surprisingly docile. Arthur’s been ordered to accompany him, much John’s annoyance--and frankly, Arthur doesn’t look too thrilled about it either. 

“Alright,” Arthur proclaims, swinging himself into the saddle of Boadicea, his hardy warhorse. “Let’s get a move on.”

“Finally!” John digs his heels into Old Boy, sending the horse galloping out of camp, not waiting for Arthur to start. The wind whistles in his ears and ruffles his shoulder-long hair, and he relishes the feeling. He’s been feeling cooped up in camp recently, since Dutch won’t let him go on any jobs yet. It doesn’t help that Miss Grimshaw’s been trying to distract him with various chores. Sometimes he thinks she makes them up specifically to watch him fail at them.

“Wait up!” Arthur calls. “John!”

A few seconds later, Arthur catches up to him atop Boadicea, a scowl on his face. John can’t help but grin. This is so much better than doing chores.

“Race you to the post office?” he asks, although it isn’t really a question. 

“Hell no,” Arthur protests, but John doesn’t listen. A taste of unrestricted riding leaves him hungry for more, and as he kicks Old Boy into a sprint, a laugh escapes his lips. 

In the distance behind him, Arthur groans and spurs on his own horse. John hears Boadicea thundering forward, but Old Boy is fast--certainly faster than a horse meant for strength rather than speed--and he easily stays in the lead. Trees pass by in a flash, the only constant being the dusty road ahead. Old Boy, for all his gentleness as a mount, moves as quickly and fluidly as water.

By the time John reaches the post office, there’s a thin sheen of sweat covering both him and his horse. Arthur reins in Boadicea only seconds later, cursing up a storm.

“You damn near ran over that poor wagon driver!” he says, swinging himself off his horse. “Are you  _ tryin’ _ to get people killed?”

John hitches Old Boy to the post right outside the office like he’s seen Arthur do. “Not on purpose.” As he watches Arthur give Boadicea a sugar cube for her efforts, he scuffs his boot against the dirt and ducks his head. “Hey, since I won, can you buy me candy?”

“You’re supposed to make bets before the race,” Arthur says. “Not after.”

“But I won, fair and square.”

Arthur laughs. “Fair and square,” he repeats, raising his eyebrows. Then he heaves a sigh. “...I’ll think about it. Now come on, I gotta get the mail.”

That’s good enough for John, so he bounces on his toes and follows Arthur into the musty interior of the post office. The shade is nice, and John likes how every step he takes makes the floorboards creak and groan. Maybe that means he’s finally gaining weight, and Arthur can stop poking fun at him for having the physique of a string bean.

There’s no one else inside apart from the man running the office and a middle-aged woman fanning herself on a bench. John briefly considers taking the opportunity to sit down on one of the fancy seats, but he wants to see behind the counter, so he tails behind Arthur as the other man stands at the counter and clears his throat.

“Good morning!” the clerk chirps, tipping his hat. “And how may I help you today?”

Arthur rubs his neck. “I, uh, believe I have some mail for me. Under Tacitus Kilgore.”

“Kilgore…” the clerk mutters to himself. “Ah, yes! A letter came in this morning. Perfect timing.” As he rummages in a bin behind him, John stands on his tiptoes and practically climbs onto the counter trying to get a better view. The marble is blissfully cool on his forearms, even though the sweat makes him slip more than once.

The clerk brandishes a creamy white envelope. “Here you are,” he says, then casts a glance at John, who’s still trying to haul himself up onto the counter. An expression of barely-contained disdain flickers across his face. “Ah, may I ask that--”

Arthur takes the envelope, flipping it over to look at the back. As he reads the name of the sender, his eyes momentarily widen. 

“No worries, we’re just leavin’.” He grabs John by the collar and unlatches him from the counter, guiding him to the door. John reluctantly follows, trying to get a peek at who the letter’s from.

As they walk outside, Arthur lets him go, then crosses his arms over his chest. He holds the letter just out of reach. “Why is it that every civilized establishment we go to, you always gotta climb all over the place like a goddamn lemur?”

“What’s a lemur?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Ah, never mind.” He feels around in his satchel, then pulls out a crumpled dollar bill. “Here,” he says. “Go buy yourself some candy.”

John whoops and snatches the money out of Arthur’s hand. He holds it up to the light, unfolding it and admiring how the sun shines through. “Really? I can really get some?”

“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.”

Then a thought comes to John, and he pauses in his celebration. He slowly tucks the dollar bill into his pocket and narrows his eyes at Arthur.

“...It’s from Mary,” he says like he’s uncovering some great secret. There’s no other reason Arthur would be in such a good mood. At Arthur’s silence, a smug grin spreads across his face.

“I’m right! She  _ did _ write you! She did!”

Arthur waves a hand, his face reddening. “Okay, okay,” he says. “Congratulations, you guessed right. Now, will you let me read it in peace?”

John cranes his head to look at the envelope. “You think she’s apologizing to you?”

“Maybe,” Arthur says. “But I’m not gonna open it with you hangin’ over my shoulder. Now go on. Really.”

John pauses, just to see if Arthur will change his mind, but at Arthur’s insistent glare, he crinkles the dollar bill in his fist and starts running to the dilapidated general store in the distance. He wants to find a little hiding spot behind a tree and spy on him, but that trick had gotten predictable after the first few times he’d pulled it off.

He swings open the door to the general store, pulling himself to his full height and walking in with confidence. The woman at the register looks up as he walks to the counter with candy displayed on it, mild curiosity on her face. 

There’s so many choices that John feels overwhelmed. Apart from the stack of chocolate in the back, there are multiple jars of colorful taffy wrapped in wax paper, an assortment of peppermints, two containers of licorice ropes, and even containers of the sickly-sweet caramels Hosea adores. 

After a solid ten minutes of deliberation, John chooses a bar of chocolate. He puts it on the counter along with the dollar bill. “I’ll have this, please,” he announces to the woman. Dutch would be proud of his manners.

“Of course,” she says, and smiles at him. “You know, you can buy two for a dollar.”

His eyes nearly bug out of his head. “Really?”

“Sure!” She steps out from behind the counter and picks up another bar. “Is that what you want?”

John nods furiously. This really is his lucky day. He takes the two chocolate bars, feeling their weight in his hands. He’s never held this much candy before. What would he even do with it all?

Actually, it’s easy to decide. He’ll eat one now and save the other one for later. Thanking the woman, he runs out of the store, ripping open the foil wrapper and cramming the bar into his mouth. Immediately, chocolate melts on his tongue, coating his taste buds with its silky-smooth richness. For a moment he just stands there with his eyes closed. Savoring the taste.

Not long after, he finds his way back to where they’d hitched their horses by the post office. He sees Arthur in the distance.

“Look!” John cries out, waving around his half-eaten chocolate bar. “Hey, Arthur!”

Arthur doesn’t respond. And as John walks closer, he doesn’t wave back. It’s only when John’s close enough to see his face that he realizes Arthur looks like he’s seen a ghost.

The letter’s nowhere to be seen, and as John comes closer, Arthur dips his head so his brim is covering his eyes. “You’re back,” he says. His voice is rough and quiet like he’s just smoked a cigarette, but John doesn’t smell any smoke. “Let’s head to camp.”

“Arthur?” John asks, but the other man simply gets on top of Boadicea and starts her into a trot. John scrambles to mount Old Boy, only catching up when Arthur’s a fair length away.

“Arthur,” he tries again, “what happened? Was it the letter?”

Arthur doesn’t meet his gaze, instead staring at the road ahead. His jaw is tight. “Nothin’ to concern yourself with.”

“What?” John can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Yeah it is. What’d Mary say? Did she--”

Suddenly Arthur jerks in the saddle to face him, his eyes blazing. “Fuck  _ off _ , Marston,” he hisses. “Will you just--for once--leave me the hell alone?”

For a second, John just stares back at him. Boadicea snorts and tosses her head, the wind whipping her mane. The chocolate bars in John’s hand are starting to melt, and he wants to stash them in his bag. But it’s like he’s frozen.

If Arthur regrets his words he doesn't show it. He just nudges Boadicea with his heels and rides down the road back to camp. As John trails after him on Old Boy, he wants to call out after him, to beg him to just talk, but he can’t help feeling bitter. All he wanted was to help, he thinks. Was that so bad?

* * *

The rest of the day passes with Arthur studiously avoiding not only John, but everyone in camp. At first everyone else brushes it off--Miss Grimshaw loudly complains about people not pulling their weight, Dutch raises his eyebrows but goes back to his reading, and Hosea cracks a few jokes that fall flat before deciding to leave Arthur be. Even Copper, Arthur’s dog, doesn’t seem too concerned.

John pretends he doesn’t care. Apart from sneaking a few glances at Arthur and looking away just as quickly, he busies himself with wandering around camp and nibbling on his chocolate. There’s still one bar left, tucked safely into Old Boy’s saddlebags. 

Dinner is served and eaten, and John lets the rest of the chocolate bar melt on his tongue. He watches the sun set from atop a tree. Climbing has always been one of his favorite pastimes, one he didn’t discover until Dutch took him from the city into real open country. The view is nice--their camp is on top of a hill, and the setting sun washes the valley below with orange and pink light. It’s peaceful.

The sounds of clinking bottles and snapping twigs come from below. John leans over and sees Dutch and Arthur meandering into the woods, each nursing a beer. They don’t notice him. 

“She--Dutch, she--” Arthur begins, then hiccups. “She didn’t even tell me to my face, Dutch.”

Dutch wraps an arm around Arthur, nodding sagely. “I know, son. I know.”

“All them months...all them sleepless nights tearin’ my hair out over her…”

John stays as stiff as a statue, not even daring to breathe. So he was right after all. Mary had broken things off. As hurt as he felt toward Arthur, the rage surging up in him made all other feelings forgotten. Mary hadn’t seen how Arthur nearly scrubbed the skin off him before each date, hadn’t seen how he tore open each letter from her with trembling fingers. She hadn’t seen how Arthur had bought her engagement ring with real, honest money. A year’s worth of money.

A few more minutes pass, and Arthur drains his bottle with a sigh. He slumps against the tree John’s hiding in, leaning his forehead against the rough bark. 

“You should turn in for the night,” Dutch says. “Sleep’ll do you good.”

A humorless laugh. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna do me good, Dutch.” But Arthur pushes himself off the tree anyway, holding the empty beer bottle by the neck, and starts staggering vaguely in the direction of camp.

Dutch clears his throat. “And what about John?”

Arthur stumbles to a stop and looks over his shoulder. “Dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Arthur, you’re dumb, but not that dumb. I saw the way he’s been acting.” He tilts his head and crosses his arms. “Seems to me like you should apologize.”

Arthur sighs miserably. “I know. I know.” 

The conversation ends there. He continues walking toward camp, and after a moment Dutch follows him. Soon, it’s just John again, crouched between the branches.

What can he do? What can he say? It’s like Arthur said. Nothing’s gonna do him good, least of all anything John can come up with. He’s tempted to, instead of focusing his energies on Arthur, ride off to Mary’s house and demand an explanation from her. He can force her to write another letter, in which she rescinds everything she said in the first one and takes Arthur back with open arms. Or, failing that, he can make her refund the cost of the ring. 

But he can’t do any of those things--at least, not without making Arthur even more upset than he is right now. And apart from that, he’s got nothing.

He drops onto the forest floor and resigns himself to heading off to bed. It’s late enough that Arthur’s sure to be asleep by now, given how drunk he sounded before. John can just slip under his blanket and leave everything else for the morning.

Hosea’s on guard, idly cleaning his gun and puffing on a cigarette. As John walks back, he raises a hand as a greeting.

“John,” he says, “we were wondering where you disappeared off to.”

“Yeah, well.” John pauses, shrugging. “Here I am.”

He’s about to head to his bedroll when Hosea stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “Everything okay? You look miserable.”

John considers lying, but it’s Hosea, so he abandons the idea. “I heard about Arthur.”

“Ah,” Hosea says. There’s a momentary pause, and John stares at his boots. “Well, it didn’t sound pretty, that’s for sure. But why are you so upset? I know you never particularly liked Mary.”

“I dunno why,” John says. And, well, maybe that’s a lie. A small lie. 

Once again, Hosea sees right through him. He claps John on the shoulder and gives him a small smile. “Just be honest, John,” he says. “If you want to be there for him, just be honest.” When John nods, he gives him a little push towards camp. “Now go on, get some rest.”

Instead of heading straight to bed, John makes a detour to visit Old Boy. The horse is sleepily chewing on some hay, and John pats him on the neck before reaching a hand into his saddlebag. He pulls out the remaining bar of chocolate, which is slightly sticky from the heat, a scrap of newspaper, and a stubby pencil. 

All he has to do is be honest.

The moon doesn’t provide much light, but it’s enough to make out the tiny print on the newspaper. For a moment, John thinks of what he should say.  _ Feel better _ is too obvious,  _ Talk to me _ sounds too desperate, and he can’t exactly write  _ I hate Mary _ . Although he wants to. 

Eventually he picks up the pencil and starts writing. His penmanship is shaky at best, but it’s legible, at least to him. He sticks his tongue out in concentration, and when he’s done, he carefully picks up the paper and reads it. 

_ I’m sorry too — John _

He folds up the paper and sticks it into the chocolate wrapper, then creeps over to his and Arthur’s bedroll. Just like he predicted, Arthur is completely passed out, snoring lightly and frowning in his sleep. Without making a sound, he gingerly places the chocolate and the note next to Arthur’s head.

* * *

Morning comes like it always does, and John wakes up earlier than anyone else. In the middle of relieving his bladder a ways from camp, John hears Arthur’s voice, scratchy from sleep. 

“What the hell…?” 

There’s nothing for a moment, then John peeks his head out of the trees to see Arthur glance at the ground, then bend to pick up a tiny wad of paper. He unfolds it, and although John can’t see his expression, Arthur doesn’t tense up in anger. It’s a good sign.

When he finishes reading, Arthur raises his head and looks around camp. “Miss Grimshaw,” he says, his voice surprisingly desperate. “Miss Grimshaw, have you seen John?”

“Can’t say I have. Why?”

A pause, then Arthur clears his throat wetly. “There’s somethin’ I need to tell him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: alcohol
> 
> ...And that's the end of the Mary storyline--my first significant deviation from canon! 
> 
> Despite what John thinks in this chapter, I actually quite like Mary and think she's a great character. Unfortunately, in my fic John hates her. I headcanon that he's a little bit jealous of how much attention Arthur gave her and not him while they were engaged. Anyway, next chapter we will jump forward in time a little bit, so I hope you're excited for that.
> 
> As always, comments make me jump around and smile like an idiot, so if you liked the chapter it would mean the world to hear from you!! Thank you all for reading and leaving wonderful feedback so far! Stay tuned :D


	4. Speak of the Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes a bad choice--and then a few more. (Set a few years before canon).

Abigail cradles a wailing Jack to her chest, stroking a finger over the baby’s soft cheek. She’s expectant, looking at John and waiting for him to say something.

“I don’t know anything about calming a baby,” he says to her. “Why don’t you go ask...well, I dunno. Hosea?”

She scowls at him. “ _Hosea_ isn’t his father, John.”

John bites back the retort of _neither am I_ , because it would just lead to another pointless argument that he really doesn’t have the energy for at three in the morning. Sighing, he accepts Jack into his arms. Another piercing wail erupts in the night.

Abigail leans against a tree, the dark circles under her eyes illuminated under the moonlight. She’s tired--he knows that, and part of him feels sorry for her--but he just wants to be done with it all. He isn’t cut out for fatherhood. He knows it, she knows it, everyone in the world knows it and if things continue like this for much longer, soon Jack will know it too.

“Just…” he starts, then sighs. “Just get some sleep.”

Abigail nods, then brushes her hand against his cheek. “Thank you.” A second passes, and she slowly makes her way to her tent. It’s just him now. Him and Jack. 

Jack gurgles and screams, and John starts pacing around camp, gently bouncing the baby up and down. “Come on, stop fussing and stay quiet…”

Whatever he’s doing, it isn’t working. The cries only get louder and more insistent, prompting Bill to grunt in his sleep and shift uneasily. Luckily, Dutch and Hosea are gracious enough not to complain about being woken up, and Uncle is dead to the world. Miss Grimshaw’s already awake, Tilly is somehow still asleep, and Arthur is on guard. 

Jack can’t be hungry--Abigail fed him an hour before. A quick check tells him that his diaper is clean, so it’s not that. John racks his brain for what else babies care about, but comes up short. And the cries continue.

“Psst. John.” A whisper comes from the perimeter of camp, and John sees Arthur wave a hand at him, the other hand on his shotgun. “Come here.”

“Arthur?” John whispers back, walking over beside him. Jack squirms in his arms, his tiny fingers brushing John’s soiled shirt. 

Arthur glances down at Jack, then back at John. “Give him here for a minute.”

“What? Why--”

“Just do it,” Arthur says. “If I can’t quiet him then he’s all yours.”

John frowns, but it’s not like he’s getting anywhere, so he carefully transfers Jack to Arthur’s arms, taking the shotgun for himself. Arthur cradles the boy close to his chest, rocking his arms a bit. A minute passes with no results. Jack’s cries persist, as John suspected they would.

“See? Told you--”

“Patience, John,” Arthur says, cutting him off in a soft voice. “Ever heard of it?”

John frowns. He hasn’t pegged Arthur as the type to be good with children, despite the man’s many talents. Still, he shifts his weight and waits, fighting the urge to light a cigarette. If Arthur wants to take over babysitting duty then he isn’t going to stop him. 

Then, the strangest thing happens. As Arthur rocks Jack in his arms, whispering to him like how he whispers to Boadicea, the wails get quieter and quieter. Eventually they stop entirely. The silence of the night washes over John, wrapping him in its peacefulness.

After a minute of silence, John peeks over at Jack. He’s sleeping, thankfully, his round face smooth and relaxed for the first time in an hour. Arthur moves to give him back, but John steps back.

“You keep him for now,” he says. “He’ll probably just start crying again once I take him.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows, but shrugs. “Sure.” He sits down on a stump, slowly so as to not jostle the baby, and looks up at John. “So,” he says, giving him a once-over, “how you feelin’?”

John gives a dry laugh. “How do you think?

“Like shit.” 

“Yeah, you got that right.” John stops himself from reaching for a cigarette yet again. He hasn’t slept right for the past few months--ever since Jack was born, really. Not only because of the constant crying. “Say, how’d you know what to do with the baby?”

“Well, uh,” Arthur says, then stops, rubbing his neck and looking down at his feet. “I got a little experience.”

“Really? Thought you were an only child.”

“I was.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything more after that, so John just figures it’s one of those things he isn’t supposed to pry about. He turns the gun over in his hands, relishing the feeling of smooth, oiled wood and metal on his skin. It feels so much more natural than holding Jack. This is how it’s supposed to be, he thinks. He would spend a thousand nights on guard if it meant he could forget about everything else. 

“Saw Abigail this evening,” Arthur says nonchalantly. “We talked.”

“Yeah?”

Arthur adjusts Jack in his arms, then looks at John. “She says you ain’t steppin’ up. As a father, I mean.”

Of course Abigail would say something like that. Motherhood comes naturally to her, so naturally it’s like she was born for the role. Jack is the apple of her eye, the light of her life. But John can’t help but see Jack as nothing but what he is: a burden. An innocent, helpless burden, but one nonetheless.

“She’s so damn sure he’s mine,” John says. “But I dunno.”

Arthur scowls. “Come on, John. Is this really the hill you want to die on?”

“Why not? Why can’t I doubt what she says? I got reason to.”

Jack whimpers in his sleep, and Arthur shifts his attention to soothing the baby, whispering incomprehensible words and bouncing his arms. Luckily, Jack doesn’t wake up, and Arthur turns to John again.

“Listen,” he says. “I don’t care whose blood Jack is, he’s here now. He’s just a baby. And you should think real hard about what you want to spend your energy on. You gotta choose your battles, John. Choose ‘em well.”

John stares at the ground. Deep down, he knows Arthur has a point--arguing that he isn’t the father won’t suddenly make it so that Jack had never been conceived. And it’s not like he wants the baby to die, either. But it feels like he’s been thrown into a situation that shouldn’t have happened for at least another ten years. Twenty-three, and responsible for a child’s life? John barely trusts himself with his own. 

Arthur holds Jack out to him, and this time John puts the gun down and takes him. He holds his breath, but Jack stays soundly asleep. 

“Go hand him over to Abigail,” Arthur says. “She’ll be grateful.”

John nods. “Thanks, Arthur.”

“Just doin’ what I can to help.”

As Arthur shoulders the shotgun and resumes his patrol, John steps through camp and enters Abigail’s tent. She’s asleep, so he places Jack in the makeshift crib Hosea had cobbled together. Jack doesn’t wake up with the movement. Somehow. 

“Night, Abigail,” he whispers to the darkness. “Night, Jack.”

There was a time when John used to celebrate stealing a thousand dollars from a bank. Now, he celebrates when his child sleeps through the night. It’s...pathetic.

He’s made up his mind. There won’t be any more sleep for him tonight, not if he wants to head out by dawn. Packing up his things would take time, especially if he wants to be quiet about it. His weapons are by Bill. The book he’s reading is outside Dutch and Hosea’s tent. His clothes are hanging on the clothesline outside Miss Grimshaw’s tent, fluttering in the cold breeze. 

By the time everything’s stashed on Old Boy, the sun is barely peeking over the horizon, bathing the sky with muted blues and pinks. John casts a last look around camp--at Tilly, who’s always been an early riser, braiding her hair, at Miss Grimshaw, who he suspects never went to bed, and at Uncle and Bill, who are fast asleep. Dutch and Hosea are still in their tent. It’s a shame. He would’ve liked to say goodbye.

As John trots out of camp on Old Boy, he sees Arthur again, who notices him and starts walking over. 

“Where you headin’ so early in the morning?”

John scratches behind Old Boy’s ear. “...On a hunting trip,” he says. “Dunno how long.”

“Well, alright,” Arthur says, frowning a little. “Can’t say it’s the best time, but more power to you. Just come back, y’hear?”

“Where else would I go?”

At that, Arthur cracks a smile. He raises a hand in farewell, and after waving back, John rides slowly out of camp. He hopes it isn’t for the last time, but who knows? There’s a whole world ahead of him, a world where he doesn’t have to worry about a crying baby or a tired woman asking more than he can give. Arthur’s right. He needs to choose his battles. And he’s smart enough to know that some battles can’t be won.

* * *

A year passes, more or less, and John has nothing to show for it. It was a year spent wandering from one shit town to the next, taking up whatever odd jobs people advertised, and getting pennies in exchange. It was a year spent scanning the newspapers for any news of the gang. A year spent, more often than not, drinking. Like the fool he is. Like the fool he continues to be.

And now he’s running back to Dutch with his tail between his legs. During the night, too, like he can’t even bear to be seen in the light of day. It’s pathetic, really. Dutch might not even take him back, given how long he’s been gone. John wouldn’t blame him. He’s bad at parenting, bad at being a son, and he’s good at making himself scarce but turns out he’s bad at keeping it that way, so it doesn’t matter much.

He sees the camp in the distance, tucked snugly into a clearing amidst the evergreen trees. It had been tough work tracking them down, but somehow he managed. Old Boy tosses his head and nickers. His horse knows when he’s feeling nervous. 

Someone’s bound to alert the camp if he gets any closer. His gut twists uncomfortably, and he has half a mind to turn around and gallop away, but he grits his teeth and rides forward. 

A gun cocks. “Who’s there?”

John doesn’t recognize the voice--it’s smooth, melodic, tinged with an accent. He nudges Old Boy forward anyway and raises his hands. “John,” he says. “Uh, John Marston.”

The owner of the voice steps into the moonlight. It’s a man with a ponytail, surprisingly well-dressed to be a member of the Van der Linde gang. His brow is furrowed. “What did you say your name was?”

“John Marston. Dutch knows me.” _Understatement of the year_ , he thinks.

The man frowns at him for a second longer, then something must hit him, because he widens his eyes and lowers his gun. He looks behind his shoulder. “Hey, Dutch! Come out here for a second!”

A moment passes, then branches snap and leaves rustle as someone struts through the bushes. It’s Dutch--looking the same as always. Hair slicked back, heavy rings on his fingers. 

“Javier, what--” 

Dutch pauses as his eyes shift to John. For a rare second, he’s speechless. He slowly walks forward, toward John, and stops when he’s a foot away. John steps down from the saddle. Old Boy noses Dutch’s vest.

“My son,” he says. “My son, where on earth have you been? We...God, we thought you were dead.”

John clears his throat, looking everywhere but back at Dutch. He’d expected anger, at the very least. But Dutch doesn’t look angry. He just looks shocked, hesitant. As if he doesn’t believe what he’s seeing is real.

“Dutch,” he says. He takes a deep breath. He’s practiced this speech, over and over. “You have every right to hate me for what I did. I know I fucked up, and I know you ain’t obligated to take me back, but--”

He’s pulled into a hug before he can finish. 

“Oh, Johnny,” Dutch says, and John is reminded of how no one’s called him that in a year, “don’t start with that. It’s alright. You’re home now.”

John hesitantly returns the hug. He hasn’t done that for a year either. He recognizes the rich, buttery scent of Dutch’s hair pomade. The scent of campfire smoke. And he hears the quiet, reedy whine of the harmonica, wafting over from farther into the forest, where the gang is undoubtedly gathered in a circle and singing the night away.

“Can I, uh…” he trails off.

Dutch claps him on the shoulder, turning him towards camp. “Let’s get some dinner in you, okay? Luckily, Pearson always makes extra servings.”

Dutch nods towards the guard and starts walking, and John follows. “Who’s Pearson?”

“Ah, just a man we picked up a while back,” Dutch says. “Came from the Navy, you know. And he’s quite a cook.”

“And the other guy I saw?”

“Javier Escuella. Ran into him stealing chickens, of all things.”

John is about to comment when, all of a sudden, they’re stepping into camp. There are familiar faces milling around the fire--Uncle, Tilly, Bill. There are a few faces he doesn’t recognize. No one notices their entrance yet.

“Everyone! Look who it is!” 

Before John can ask Dutch to be more discreet, the gang perks up, and all at once joyous, disbelieving cries erupt.

“John!” Tilly squeals, running up to him and wrapping him in a bear hug. She pulls back, grinning from ear to ear. 

“Is that really him?” 

John turns his head to see Hosea, who stares at him as if he’s a ghost. “Come here, old man,” he says, gripping his hand and pulling him into another hug.

“Well, I--” Hosea starts, then laughs. “This is quite the surprise, John.”

Other members of the gang crowd around, each laughing with disbelief and excitement. A few strangers stare at him curiously, and Dutch takes the time to introduce John to everyone. There’s two brothers, Mac and Davey, the aforementioned Pearson, and a couple women too--Mary-Beth and Karen. They’ve all heard of him, apparently. As if he’s some sort of local legend. 

“You sure picked up a lot of people, Dutch.”

Dutch chuckles. “We ain’t such a small gang anymore.”

“John!” someone calls out. “John Marston!” 

He turns his head and sees Abigail. Her hair is tied into a low bun, and she’s wearing a simple dress with a shawl. And she stops halfway across camp and stares at him, whatever words she wanted to say forgotten on her lips. She’s...well, a sight for sore eyes.

“John,” she says again. Softly. The people crowding into him fall silent as more and more of them notice her presence. 

“Abigail.”

She snaps out of whatever trance she was in, stalks over to him, and grabs him by the wrist, pulling him away and dragging him towards a tent. “We need to talk.”

“Abigail,” he says, stumbling after her, “I--”

“Shut up! Shut up and listen to me.” Her chest is heaving, and there’s fire in her eyes. He knows the look well. 

So he waits for her to say something, as she no doubt wants to do. Unlike what he did for Dutch, he didn’t prepare a speech for her. She would see through it immediately. Abigail is a smart woman, he thinks. Maybe she would be smart enough to finally leave him. 

But as the seconds pass, Abigail’s shoulders slump, and her breath hitches. Her mouth opens and closes, and whatever tirade she was about to unleash never gets spoken. 

Instead, she looks him in the eyes. “You better have a good explanation for this.” 

“I...I don’t.”

Abigail’s mouth presses into a thin line, and she waves him closer with her hand. “Come here,” she says. “I gotta show you something.” 

She gently pushes open the tent flaps, letting the light from the campfire stream into the tent’s interior. He sees a tangled mess of blankets, which must be where she sleeps. He sees another, smaller pile of bedding next to Abigail’s. And he sees a child sleeping on top of it.

John didn’t realize how much a person could grow in only a year. Jack is bigger now, even curled up like that, and John realizes that even if he tries, the boy probably wouldn’t fit in his arms anymore. As he watches, he half expects Jack to wake up and start crying for his mama, waking up half the camp in the process. But he sleeps more peacefully than John’s ever seen. 

Abigail looks at John, her eyes tracing every bump and crater in his skin with her eyes. She looks at him with all the pain of an animal left to die.

“Why’d you have to come back?”

Outside, the camp is strangely quiet, the only discernible sound being the crackling of the campfire. John is quiet too. There’s nothing he can say. 

“I was making peace with it, John. I was accepting it. And now--” she pauses, and a choked laugh comes out of her mouth “--and now…”

John wants to turn in the opposite direction and bolt. Leave everything, just like he did a year ago. “I don’t know what to say, Abigail.”

“Then don’t say anything.”

She steps inside the tent and kneels down next to Jack, feathering her hand over the child’s forehead. John is rooted to the ground. The scene is far too intimate for him, even though by all logic he should be kneeling down right next to her. But his presence feels more like an intrusion, and he knows Jack doesn’t need him. In fact, Jack would be better off without him. 

“Go, John.” Abigail pauses long enough to look up at him. “You must be hungry, right? So go.”

He does.

* * *

Morning comes without any fanfare. John’s given a spot next to Bill, the other man shifting over his bedding with complaints that fail to conceal his underlying happiness to have John back. Jack doesn’t cry--at least John doesn’t think he does. It’s hard to tell when he’s halfway across camp.

John sips his coffee next to Javier, who he found out last night has a talent for guitar-playing. The man clearly isn’t a morning person, though, and the instrument lays forgotten against a tree.

“Say,” John starts, “do you happen to know where Arthur is?”

Javier takes a tentative sip of his own coffee, hissing when the liquid touches his mouth. “He should be back any day now. He was running some errand or something.” He blows on his coffee and takes another sip. “You know, from the way he always talks about you, I kinda expected someone more...”

“Interesting?” John supplies.

“I was going to say pathetic.”

John has to stop himself from laughing. “Really? Arthur said that?”

“It was more of an implied thing.”

Before John can respond to that, a set of hoofbeats grow louder, coming closer to camp. Javier grins around his mug. “Ah, this reminds me of a phrase Hosea taught me,” he says. “You know--speak of the devil.”

Arthur canters into camp atop Boadicea, yawning. He doesn’t notice John, not from this far away, and he slides off his horse and hitches her to a post. A year hasn’t changed him much. He still wears his dusty brown jacket, now mottled with grease and blood stains. He still wears his hat.

“Hey, Arthur!” Mary-Beth calls. “You missed all the excitement last night.”

He smiles at her. “Oh, yeah? Well, don't keep me in suspense.”

She’s about to respond when Arthur looks toward the campfire and notices John. 

His eyes go wide and he stops in place, as if he’s been jerked by a string. John freezes too. If Javier is right, he knows what kind of reaction to expect, but a part of him doesn’t want to believe Arthur would be angry. Even though he has every right to be. 

“John Marston.” Arthur walks slowly toward him, his gait tense. 

John puts down his coffee and stands up. “...Arthur,” he says. “It’s good to see you.”

“Is it? Is it really?” Arthur sidles up to him until he’s mere inches away, staring him down with such cold ferocity that John has to stop himself from cowering. “Or is that only somethin’ you realized after stickin’ your head up your ass for a year?”

John frowns and takes a step forward. “Listen, I--”

“No!” Arthur balls his fist and for a second John thinks he’s going to punch him. But the hit never comes. “I don’t know what Dutch is thinking by lettin’ you waltz back in here, but way I see it, a man ain’t got the right to come back after doin’ what you did.” He pauses, shoulders rising and falling, and glances at Javier. He jerks his chin up and to the left. Javier gets the message.

The man gathers his things, walking off to some other part of camp with an awkward nod. Arthur turns his gaze back to John. In his eyes John sees the anger he was expecting all this time, finally rearing its ugly head. This is it. This is what he deserves.

“Arthur,” he starts, but Arthur cuts him off.

“Do you have any idea--any _goddamn_ idea--what Abigail and Jack went through? All those late nights where Jack couldn’t sleep? Or when he got sick, and Abigail went half crazy with worry? Or when he wandered off one day and the whole camp got turned inside out tryin’ to find him?”

It’s a rhetorical question, John knows, but even if it wasn’t he wouldn’t answer. Arthur closes the distance between them, glaring straight into his eyes. It seems like only yesterday that John had to tiptoe to grab the hat off Arthur’s head--now, John is the taller one. But his extra height gives him no comfort.

“Dutch only took you back because we need extra guns.”

“That ain’t true,” John protests. Arthur hadn’t been there when Dutch welcomed him back with literal open arms. “I’m more than just a gun to him.”

“Then what are you, Marston? Besides a gun?” Arthur asks. “Because you sure ain’t the man I thought you was.”

Silence stretches between them, as long and heavy as John’s yearlong absence. John swallows, coffee sour in his mouth.

“You know,” Arthur says, “that one day, Jack looked up at me and called me Pa?”

If John had heard that six months ago, when he was half man and half liquor, it wouldn’t have mattered. Not to him. But now it feels like the moment after being bucked off a horse. Laying on the ground, blinking against the dust in his eyes, struggling to understand how one moment he was riding just fine and the next moment he was flying through the air. 

“Did you correct him?”

“I did.” Arthur looks John in the eye. “And I regret it.”

A slight breeze blows through camp, causing the fire to flicker. There’s a bead of sweat trickling down Arthur’s brow, and it’s all John can focus on at the moment. If he hones in on that, he doesn’t have to think about how there is more in Arthur’s gaze than just anger. Because thinking about that will mean thinking about what exactly Arthur feels, and how John is only getting a taste, terrible as it is. This is one morning out of hundreds of days. 

“Get outta my sight,” Arthur eventually says. He sounds tired. “Go.”

Despite himself, John gives a dry chuckle. “You ain’t afraid I’m gonna run away again?”

“Why should I be afraid? Things would just go back to normal.”

John can’t argue with that. He doesn’t even want to. So, for the second time in as many days, he leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: threat of violence, alcohol
> 
> Sorry for the somewhat depressing chapter...it's so hard writing John acting like this because I love his dedication to his family at the end of RDR2 and throughout RDR, but I don't want to pretend like he was always like this. I think he absolutely deserves the verbal beatdown he gets, though--no one should ever abandon their family like he did.  
> But don't worry! I have some good news! Next chapter, we'll finally start covering canon!! I hope you're excited as I am :)  
> One more silly note: while writing this chapter I discovered how much I love Tilly. She's amazing and a wonderful little sister to John and Arthur.  
> Thank you all for the wonderful, heartwarming feedback I've gotten so far!! Absolutely nothing means more to me than hearing what you all think. If you haven't commented, I would love to hear from you, but if not have a great day anyway :) I hope everyone liked this chapter!! See you in a few days! <3


	5. Little by Little...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John recovers after the wolf attack. Set during canon, sometime after the mission where Arthur and Javier rescue John.

One thing John’s learned in his life is that when something hurts bad enough, your whole body feels it. Even if it’s a broken toe, or a cracked nail, the pain radiates through every nerve, and for a few days it’s all you can think about.

This time, things are a little more serious than a chipped fingernail. John can barely move, barely lift a finger without white-hot pain shooting through his face, leaving him clenching his jaw and biting back the wave of pain which comes with that small movement too. Talking is worse. He doesn’t do it unless he absolutely has to.

Arthur opens the door to the small cabin and walks in, nodding brief greetings to the people huddled around the fire. He says a few hushed words to that woman Dutch had picked up earlier, Mrs. Adler. John feels bad for her--and he’s allowed to, because this time it wasn’t the Van der Linde gang who took away everything she had. It’s always easier to connect with someone when you have a common enemy. 

“John.” Arthur lowers himself onto the stool next to his bed, now that it isn’t being occupied by Abigail, who took Jack to warm up by the larger fire in Dutch’s cabin.

John twitches a few fingers and hopes that counts as a greeting. The morphine that Swanson gave him earlier is kicking in, and his head feels like it’s being stuffed with cotton.

“It’s alright,” Arthur says, “you don’t have to say nothin’. I know your face is hurtin’.” He sighs, then clears his throat. “Dunno if you heard, but Charles and I brought back some food. Venison. Should make a fine stew.”

John doesn’t really feel hungry. Still, food is always good. Food means survival, and survival means they might manage to hold out long enough to get through this winter storm. Maybe that’s what Arthur is trying to tell him. When John was waiting on that snowy ledge, with his face torn to shreds, hoping someone would come for him before he bled to death, the gang's long-term survival was the last thing on his mind. But now he has more time than he knows what to do with, so he's been using it to think about things like this. Things he would rather leave untouched.

“I know you can’t exactly eat anything right now, but…” Arthur trails off, drumming his fingers on his knee. “...we could pipe the stew through your nose or somethin’.”

Despite himself, John smiles, and immediately grimaces as pain jolts through his entire face. Damn Arthur for making jokes at a time like this. 

“Abigail’s worried about you. Jack, too.” Arthur pauses, and then chuckles a little. “Not that you care what they think.”

Despite the laugh, Arthur doesn’t sound amused. And John knows that his state right now certainly isn’t helping to lighten things. They’re all stressed beyond belief, and John is too, or at least as much as he can be when he can’t really think straight due to the pain. All of Abigail’s complaining, all of Jack’s silent nervousness as he looks at him from behind his mother’s skirt--it grates on him like nothing else. He was certainly a sorry excuse for a father before, but now Jack can’t even look at his face without shrinking back in fear. And John can’t do anything about it.

The door to the cabin creaks open, sending a gust of icy wind howling inside. Charles pokes his head in. “Hey, Pearson says that dinner’s ready.”

Immediately a joyful clamor arises, and people start gathering their things. Miss Grimshaw holds a hand out to that Adler woman, but she waves it off, and with a twist of her mouth Miss Grimshaw starts seeing the other folks out the door. 

Soon the only people left are Charles, the Adler woman, Arthur, and John himself. Charles aims a glance at Arthur. “You coming?” he asks. “Wait too long, and there might not be any left.”

Arthur looks at John, then looks back at Charles. “No, I--” he pauses, gesturing to John “--I think I’ll sit up with him a while longer.”

“Alright. I’ll save you a bowl.”

Arthur smiles and dips his head. “Much obliged.”

Charles nods and starts talking to the Adler woman, who doesn’t seem to offer much in the way of conversation.

John wants to tell Arthur he really doesn’t have to stay with him, that he can go eat with everyone else. It’s not like John is going anywhere. And it’s not like Arthur sitting beside him will make his wounds close up faster than normal. Although...it is better than being alone.

“You cold?” Arthur asks.

John shakes his head just a bit. Another lightning-hot flash of pain lances through his face. Still, Arthur glances around the cabin and picks up a ratty blanket--which he gives a good shake to get the dust out--and lays it over John. The weight feels nice.

“Gettin’ yourself eaten by wolves,” he grumbles under his breath, bending over John as he adjusts the corners. “I swear, you’re gonna replace Bill as the camp’s prize idiot.”

The joke--if it was meant to be a joke--falls flat, mostly because Arthur still doesn’t sound amused. He avoids John’s eyes the whole time. As if the fact that he has any feelings at all about the possibility of John dying is too shameful to admit. It would be funny, without the context of the last four years behind it.

John taps the side of the cot with his fingers, and Arthur looks up. 

“So--” John whispers, wincing, “--sorry.”

Arthur stares at him for a second, then huffs a laugh. “Well. I didn’t know you knew how to say that, Marston.” He fishes in his pocket for a cigarette, lights it, and brings it up to his lips. “Wonders’ll never cease.”

As Arthur blows out a steady stream of smoke, John closes his eyes. He dreads the moment when Abigail will come back, toting a too-quiet Jack, looking a mix between angry and forlorn. And he knows whose side Arthur is on, if there are sides to this mess Abigail insists on calling a family. But until then, John can shut everything else out. Give in to the exhaustion creeping up on him.

He hears Arthur exhale another puff of smoke, then rustle in his pocket. After a second he hears him flipping through the pages of his beaten-up journal. And then he hears the scratching of a pencil, repetitive and calming. Arthur’s right. Wonders will never cease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: injury
> 
> I know this chapter is short, sorry about that! I promise next chapter will be longer. Speaking of next chapter, I might have to delay the posting a little because I'm in the middle of rewriting it. I also just started college, so I'm more busy now. But don't worry! It shouldn't take more than a few days to finish up!
> 
> I'm super excited to finally be entering canon. Everything from here on out will be taken from canon, because I feel that there are so many moments that the game overlooks that have potential to deepen John and Arthur's relationship. Also, Charles is here! The Charthur is coming soon, I promise. 
> 
> I hope you're enjoying reading my fic as much as I enjoy writing it! Thank you all for the super nice feedback, it means the world to me and is always appreciated :") See you in a few days!!


	6. ...We'll Be Okay Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur heals from his run-in with the O'Driscolls, and John spends some time with his family. Set after Blessed Are the Peacemakers.

“Well,” Arthur rasps, “look how the tables’ve turned.”

He talks like he’s poking fun at himself, confined to a bed for the first time in years, but John knows he secretly hates it. Hates being unable to sit up without help, hates the constant pain, hates the fact that he’s helpless. John knows this because he’s lived it too.

“Stop lookin’ so miserable, Marston. Or is it just the scars talkin’?”

John rubs a hand over his cheek, feeling the angry red bumps left by the stitches. It’s been a month, but he still hasn’t gotten used to it, and he keeps catching himself rubbing the scars as if repeated touch would somehow wear the skin down into something less ugly. 

“I ain’t miserable,” he says. 

“Could’ve fooled me.” Arthur smirks at the cloth roof of his tent, not even bothering to turn his head to address John directly. “I had no idea I worried you so much--I sorta figured you would indulge in one of your more interestin’ hobbies. Like lazing about camp. Or drinking.”

John scowls and stares at the dirt. “Well, I _would_ be, but Abigail wanted me to sit with you.”

“And how long ago was that?”

“Two hours.”

“Since I got here?”

“No,” John says. “You got here three days ago.”

That makes Arthur blink a few times. He looks noticeably paler than before, even though he was already pale to start out with. He wets his lips and lets out a huff. “Three days,” he echoes.

A grimace appears on his face. John understands it well--it hadn’t been pretty when, three nights ago, he’d heard a wet thump by the entrance to camp and turned around to see Arthur, clad only in his union suit, lying on the ground with a stinking crater of a wound in his shoulder. Time has passed slowly since then. People have been worried. And now Arthur is awake, well enough to talk but not well enough to do anything else.

The shoulder wound has been cleaned, all the bullet fragments painstakingly picked out, the mess of blood, pus, and bone wrapped in clean cloth bandages. It doesn’t look so bad now, John thinks. The swath of white fabric does a good job at covering it all up. Reverend Swanson has been the one to change the dressing every day, more because of his unofficial designation as the camp medic than anything else. It’s amazing that the man’s hands stay steady enough to do an operation that delicate.

Arthur sighs. “Camp’s kinda quiet.”

“It’s four in the morning.” 

“What? Why the hell are you even awake?”

John scuffs the ground with his shoes. “Couldn’t sleep.”

They both fall quiet after that. John remembers what Abigail told him earlier that night-- _if you’re going to pace around like that, John, the least you can do is give Miss Grimshaw a break and do it by his bedside_. For once, he took her advice, and now here he is, just in time to catch him waking up. Some coincidence.

“I should go let Dutch know,” he says. He gets up from his seat next to the cot, brushes the dust off of his pants, and is about to open the tent flaps when Arthur takes a sharp breath in.

“Wait,” he says. “Could you, uh, tell Charles too?”

The question surprises John. Since when did Charles care so much about Arthur’s wellbeing? But John isn’t the type to deny a bedridden man something so simple, so he just nods. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

Hearing that, Arthur exhales a breath and closes his eyes. Already he’s looking tired enough to slip back into slumber, despite only being awake for a few minutes. “Thanks.”

John doesn’t quite know what to say to that.

* * *

The following day, everything is bright and clear when John happens to hear noises coming from Arthur’s tent. Not talking, exactly, more like muffled groans punctuated by the occasional word from Miss Grimshaw and the creaking of metal on metal. He puts down the bottle of lukewarm beer he’s drinking and shuffles a little closer.

“Now, Mister Morgan, don’t you--” another groan, low and frantic, and she pauses “--for God’s sake, wake up! Wake up, Arthur!”

More creaks, louder this time. It sounds like the frame of the cot is straining against itself, and Miss Grimshaw huffs. “Lord above…”

John walks up to the tent and pushes open one of the flaps. When he sticks his head inside, it’s clear what is really going on: Miss Grimshaw hovering over the bed, and Arthur twitching and crying out in the throes of a nightmare.

She notices John’s entrance and waves a hand at him. “Oh, good--help me hold him down before he hurts himself, would you?”

“I ain’t--” he starts to say, but she cuts him off.

“I don’t _care_ , John, I need your help!”

So John shuts up and goes next to Arthur. John’s about to place his hands on Arthur’s shoulders when he lets out another groan and shudders, his hands unconsciously holding the cot’s metal frame with a white-knuckled grip.

John looks at Miss Grimshaw. “What do I do?” he whispers. 

“Like I said, hold him down,” she snaps. “Avoid the shoulder. Surely you can manage that?”

Suddenly, Arthur’s eyes fly open, bloodshot and unseeing, and he heaves a gasp. John freezes, his hands inches away from Arthur’s collarbone. 

“Dutch,” Arthur croaks. His gaze darts wildly around the tent. “I--I gotta tell him--Dutch--”

“Arthur, snap out of it!”

“...John?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

There’s a pause before Arthur answers. “Shouldn’t be here,” he breathes. “Go. It’s a trap.”

John places his hands on Arthur’s arms in a weak attempt to stop him from moving. He tries to speak in what he thinks is a soothing voice. “You’re at camp, Arthur. There ain’t no trap.”

“No! You can’t--” Arthur stops to make a frustrated noise “--you’re gonna get _hurt_ …”

The only sound for a few tense seconds is ragged breathing. 

John’s too stunned to think of a response, so Miss Grimshaw pushes him out of the way. She does a better job of restraining Arthur than John by far. John stands in the corner, waiting for the nightmare to pass, and eventually Arthur stops trembling and Miss Grimshaw releases her iron grip.

She hums and brushes a hand over Arthur’s forehead. “Fever’s gone up,” she murmurs to herself. “Poor fool.”

“...Where ‘m I?” His voice is so quiet John can barely hear it.

“You’re home, Arthur. Don’t you worry one bit.”

Arthur happens to turn his head to the side enough to spot John. Realization crosses his face, then he closes his eyes and creases his brow, sighing. 

John clears his throat and studies the patchy grass at his feet. “Uh,” he says, floundering for something to say besides _what the hell was that_ , “you okay?”

It’s a while before Arthur answers. “I’m okay,” he says softly. As if it’s not only John he wants to convince.

* * *

John knows how unpredictable wounds are, how a person’s condition can worsen dramatically over the course of a few hours. It happened to Davey--everyone thought he would pull through, but in the end the cold ate him up faster than he could survive it. Laying on the bed in Colter, John thought it might happen to him too.

Still, it’s a surprise when just as the sun is setting on the horizon, Hosea sits down by the fire and announces in a grim voice that Arthur’s dying.

“He may not make it through the night,” he says. “It depends on whether his fever breaks, and right now it doesn’t look good.”

Mary-Beth’s sweet face crumples in shock, and she steadies herself against Tilly, who doesn’t look much better. Javier frowns, putting down his guitar. “I saw him this afternoon, though. He looked--well, not great, but…”

“He looked _okay_ ,” John finishes. He glances at Hosea for some sort of answer as to how they could have let things get this bad. But Hosea just stares back at him with exhaustion and sadness in his eyes, and that’s how John knows things are serious. As the realization hits other people as well, the mood around the campfire solemns. No one speaks for a moment. John doesn’t either--he doesn’t know what to say.

Lenny, ever the practical one, pipes up. “Can we see him?” 

Hosea nods. “I...already said what I had to. So go ahead.”

Lenny mutters a quick “thanks, Mister Matthews” and stands up to head for Arthur’s tent. One by one, the girls excuse themselves, probably to go wait until Lenny is done, and even Javier picks up his guitar and leaves. How long does Arthur even have? Would he stay alive long enough for everyone to get a word in?

Is there really a chance he could die before morning?

Hosea slumps onto the log next to John, looking even more old and weary than normal. The lines on his face seem etched in stone, and when he turns his head toward John he doesn’t smile.

“Dutch knows,” he says. “I told him first. Most everyone in camp does, too. Just got to tell Charles and Bill. They’re on guard.”

“I don’t understand why you gotta tell everyone,” John protests. Denial sits in his gut like a stone. “You _know_ him, Hosea. He always pulls through. I mean, remember that time Boadicea bucked him off and he landed on his head all funny? Or when he ate those berries and spent the next week throwing up every damn thing we gave him?”

Hosea lights a cigarette, takes a puff, and exhales. “Of course I remember, John. But we both know this is different,” he says, not unkindly. 

John isn’t a stranger to the cruelty of men. He knows that getting shot, beaten, and tortured has got to have _some_ consequences. Yet he wants to say that even if it takes a month, Arthur will be fine--but the strange stillness around camp, the quiet, reverent motions of a group already mourning one of their own, suggests something different. 

He sits with Hosea in silence. Hosea smokes his cigarette, letting his former words sink in, and John--well, there’s nothing John can say that won’t sound like a plea to God for mercy. It’s better than being alone. But not much. 

Lenny returns. The brightness in his eyes is nowhere to be found, and he doesn’t greet any of them as he sits back down by the campfire.

A few minutes after, Abigail comes over with Jack trailing behind her. Her eyes are rimmed with red, and Jack looks up at her every few seconds with a forlorn gaze. He’s holding a crude wooden doll.

“I heard the news,” she says in a shaking voice. “I think--John, would you mind--” she stumbles on her words and gently nudges Jack toward him. “Would you mind watching him? While I…”

As she glances over to Arthur’s tent, John doesn’t argue. “Yeah. I can do that.”

If she’s surprised, she hides it well. Instead, in some overflowing of emotion that catches John off guard, she pulls him into a hug, clinging on for a brief moment before letting go. “Thank you,” she whispers. Then she nods at Hosea and Lenny and heads towards Arthur’s tent. 

Hosea levels a long look at him, then pats Lenny on the shoulder. “We’ll leave you to it, John.” He gets up and Lenny follows, although he looks a bit confused as to why he’s being escorted away from John and Jack.

If this is Hosea’s last-ditch attempt to get John to interact with his child, he doesn’t appreciate it. Not now, when he would rather jump in a river than talk to someone. But Jack doesn’t say anything, and after an awkward minute of watching the boy clutch his doll and stare into the fire, John pats the stool next to him. “You want to sit?”

“...Okay.” Jack climbs up onto the stool.

John chews the inside of his cheek, looking at Jack out of the corner of his eye, and clears his throat. How does he start a conversation with a child? 

“So...uh…”

“What happened to Uncle Arthur?”

John thinks that a cigarette would be good right about now. Or a drink. He fidgets with the hem of his shirt and sighs. “Uncle Arthur, well.” He really needs a drink. “Uncle Arthur got taken by the O’Driscolls. And, uh, shot.”

Jack, if possible, looks more morose than a minute ago. “Oh. Okay.”

The tent in the distance looms like a silent black monolith. He’s sure by now that Abigail is in there, clutching Arthur’s hand and admitting how sorry she is that Jack has to be stuck with John as a father after years of being spoiled by Arthur’s relative competence. Something like that, anyway.

It’s a few seconds before he realizes the kid’s face is wet with tears. 

“Jesus--uh, are you--” John scrambles for something to say “--why are you crying, Jack?”

Jack sniffles and wipes his sleeve across his nose. “Because I don’t want Mama to be sad.”

“Oh.” John reminds himself again how terrible the gang must be to grow up in. It’s better than what his childhood was, but certainly not by much. “Well, Abigail--I mean, your Mama will be fine. She’s a strong woman.”

“But isn’t Uncle Arthur going to die?”

“No!” John says, with more force than he intended. He takes a deep breath and softens his voice. “No, he isn’t.”

The words came out before he could think about them, and John has to stop himself from cursing. Already he’s no better than a liar. If only Abigail could come out of there and talk some sense into Jack, and succeed where John is so clearly failing--but she doesn’t, and she’s not going to, and John is stuck with trying to convince both his child and himself that Arthur will make it through the night.

“Look,” he says, and then sighs. “Why don’t we go somewhere else for a bit? You can show me your toy.”

Jack blinks up at him. “Really?”

“Sure.” 

The boy casts a long look at Arthur’s tent, then nods. “Okay.”

John takes Jack farther away from the tent, far enough away so that he can’t hear anything. As much as he wants to go back, he knows it’s better this way. A child shouldn’t be anywhere near there. Jack sits down on a crate, crossing his legs, and holds the toy out to John. It’s worn and dirty, but John can make out the remnants of faded paint. It looks to be some sort of toy soldier.

“So, what’s his name?” John asks. As good a question as any, he thinks.

“Isaac Van der Linde.” Jack carefully places the toy on John’s knee, arranging the limbs so it looks like it’s really sitting. John tries not to move. “Uncle Arthur helped me think of the first name. He’s Uncle Dutch’s, um, long lost nephew.”

John doesn’t know how much time passes while he’s listening to Jack. He loses track of the toy’s whole backstory early on, but he just keeps nodding and making sympathetic noises every once in a while, and Jack just keeps talking so he figures he’s pulling it off pretty well. Even if the whole time, he has to force himself to stare at his son instead of across camp. The worst part is that no one comes to get him. He’s desperate for news, any news, even if it’s bad. Especially if it’s bad.

After the tale of Isaac Van der Lindeis completely exhausted, Jack falls silent for a minute. Then he looks up at John with wide eyes. John notices how the tear stains on his face are almost gone. “Papa,” he says, “are you sad too?”

John’s mind draws a blank, both at the name and the question. He stares back at Jack, a strange pain settling in his chest, and clears his throat. How can he possibly answer that? “I...” he says, “well, I...I don’t…”

It’s then that Abigail walks over to the both of them, interrupting John. She looks haggard, to put it lightly. “John, I--”

“Is he--”

“Alive,” she says quickly. The question must have been written all over his face. “He’s still alive.”

John lets out a breath and slumps. He can’t explain why he’s so relieved, given that in a few hours that fact is likely to change. He places an absentminded hand on Jack and looks up at Abigail. 

She gives him a thin-lipped smile. “I’ll watch the boy,” she says. “You want to see him, don’t you? Go on.”

“Okay,” is all John manages to say, his voice strained. Abigail looks at him with tenderness that he certainly doesn’t deserve, as if he’s the one out of the both of them who’s hurting more.

He picks himself up off the ground and walks to Arthur’s tent. He feels like a ghost, hovering just above the ground, not really here but not really gone either. The area around the tent is silent--Tilly is there, and so is Javier, but they’re both standing quietly with downcast eyes. 

John gives them an awkward wave, then takes a deep breath and pushes open the flaps hanging in front of the tent.

Immediately, he’s hit with the combined smell of medicine and infection, the former’s sharp scent cutting through the latter. Arthur is lying unconscious. A small part of John is both surprised and disappointed, although expecting to see Arthur in any other state would be foolish. John sits on the rickety stool next to the cot, leans his elbows on his knees, and watches him.

Up close, even he can tell how bad it is. Arthur is pale, with a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead and neck. Every breath is shallow. His brows are furrowed in a pained expression, even while he’s unconscious. It’s hard to watch. 

“You need one hell of a bath,” John says. 

Arthur doesn’t respond, of course. He just keeps on breathing, his chest rising and falling just the tiniest bit. Nowadays Arthur looks more worn-out than not, more worried than relaxed, and John can’t deny that seeing him so peaceful is strange. It reminds him of all those times they used to ride out to the plains when they were younger, when Arthur would busy himself with his two favorite pastimes: looking at plants and teasing John, and John would generally be annoying until Arthur would threaten to abandon him. 

Things are different now. The gang’s become more of a sprawling troupe than a tight-knit family. Bessie’s dead, Annabelle’s dead, so are Mac, Davey, even poor Jenny. Arthur rides out the same as always. But he doesn’t ask John to come with him. 

John looks at Arthur and clears his throat. “Hosea tells me you’re dying.”

No response. John casts his eyes over the knicknacks scattered around Arthur’s tent: the photo of his mother, of his dog, of his no-good father. There’s a photo of Dutch, Hosea, and Arthur posing in a professional studio. It’s weird to see a teenage Arthur, somehow. Arthur’s always given off the impression that he sprang fully-formed into the world as a grizzled, bearded outlaw. Or maybe it’s just that he’s always been older than John, so John has always thought of him that way. Elder. Wiser. Stronger.

“You’re dying,” John repeats. 

Having the time to say goodbye is a blessing. Living the life of an outlaw, a person can die in half a second. Less than that. Time is a luxury not normally afforded to people like them. But right now, time seems more like a condemnation, forcing John to think of words that could possibly sum up the weight of years. 

He can’t. It’s too much. John hates himself for it, but he doesn’t have it in him to let go. “You know what?” he says, raising his voice a little. “Everyone else seems to think you’re the kind of man who would let something like this kill him. Everyone else is acting like you’re already dead. But I ain’t going to.”

He stands up from the stool. It’s getting too hard to be in here, stifled by the sickness and silence. Arthur would understand, wouldn’t he? Arthur would--

Well. It doesn’t really matter. Because Arthur isn’t awake.

“You’ll see,” he says, jabbing his finger in Arthur’s direction. “You’ll wake up come morning. I know you always say I’m too stubborn for my own good, and maybe you think I should just give up, but--” he takes a sharp breath in “--I ain’t saying goodbye.”

There’s no response as John turns around, throws open the tent flaps, and nearly sprints out into camp. On the way, he nearly bumps into Charles. The other man looks at him with confusion, then sees his face.

Something flickers across Charles’s expression--sadness, perhaps, and a quiet understanding. “Careful, John,” he says.

John wants to ask if Charles is okay, because his voice has that odd, guttural quality about it that signals barely-restrained devastation. But Charles walks past him, straight into Arthur’s tent, and closes the flaps behind him. He’s so different from John. He knows what he wants and how to get it. John, on the other hand, is only sure about a few things, things that seem so simple he’s not sure they even count. Things like surviving, like making sure he’s alive to see the future.

He knows what he _doesn’t_ want. Being in that tent, seeing Arthur’s grip on life weaken with every second, is something he never wants to experience again. He never wanted to experience it in the first place. And if he doesn’t want Arthur to die, doesn’t that mean some part of him wants Arthur to live? 

It seems so obvious to him now, but under the years of ugly, bitter anger clouding his mind, the thought shines through like a long-forgotten treasure. _I want you to live,_ John thinks. _I do._ Of course he does.

* * *

“Arthur’s awake!” 

Miss Grimshaw stands outside the tent, her hair falling out of her bun and messily swept back. She’s wide-eyed and smiling. Immediately, the camp lets out a cheer, the women dropping their sewing and hugging each other out of sheer relief. John remains seated next to the campfire--he hasn’t slept all night, and he’s afraid that if he stands up he might pitch over from exhaustion. 

He struggles to process the information. If Arthur’s awake, that means, he isn’t dead, which means he survived the night. Hosea is wrong. Arthur is alive. John’s words have somehow come true, as if he spoke them into reality. 

“John?” someone asks, touching his shoulder. It’s Abigail. “You alright?”

Jack stands a few feet away, holding his wooden toy. John stares at her for a few seconds before remembering to respond. “Yeah,” he says, his voice strained and quiet. “Are you?”

“I am,” she says.

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s asked her that. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s talked to her, honestly and kindly. Somehow that bothers him more than it ever did before. 

So he makes the split-second decision to take her hand in both of his, pressing the warmth of their palms together. He thinks of what Jack asked him only a few hours before. “Abigail,” he murmurs. “Are you sad? About...us?”

She stares at him, then lets out a small laugh. “I said I was fine, didn’t I?”

“I think that maybe you’re lying.”

Abigail looks down at his hands and back up at his face. She squeezes his fingers, just a little, just enough so that he can feel it. “If you want the truth, then act like a father and take Jack fishing.”

“Okay.”

“And for God’s sake, set things right with Arthur. Life’s too short to hold grudges.”

“Okay,” he says. “Anything else?”

“And--” she suddenly swallows, blinking a few times before continuing in a thick voice “--love me.”

She turns towards Arthur’s tent, touching her palm to John’s. He follows her gaze. It’s funny what can change in only a few hours, he thinks. Things are clearer now. Maybe there’s a future out there where he can be a better man, a better father. And Arthur--well, John doesn’t know if Arthur would die for him. But he knows now that he would live for him, although their life is one of suffering and pain. If he thinks about it, it’s more than he feels like he’s ever deserved. 

“I will,” John tells Abigail. His words hang in the air like an echo. “I promise.” 

The sunlight hitting his eyes is what makes them tear up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: alcohol, injuries, reference to torture, nightmares, reference to death
> 
> As I predicted, I couldn't get this chapter out on time, but I hope the length makes up for it! I basically scrapped what I had originally and rewrote the whole thing. If anyone's curious, I originally included a scene where Charles asks John to go out and look for Arthur (before he came back), but sadly it didn't fit. I still consider it as something that happened in this fic though. There was also a scene where John walks in on Charles sitting at Arthur's bedside and holding his hand :)
> 
> Seriously, though, this chapter gave me so much trouble...I hope it's okay! I hope the part with Abigail at the end isn't too sudden. Let me know what you think or if you have any questions so far. Sometimes I feel as if I'm shouting into the void when I publish fanfic--so any feedback is super appreciated, bc I've read over my work so much that I honestly can't tell if it's good or not. 
> 
> I will see you all in three days, as promised! Thank you for reading!!


	7. Just Keep Talking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During Jack's return party, John uncovers something Arthur's been hiding from him. (Set after the mission where Jack is rescued from Bronte).

John hasn’t seen the camp this alive since Sean’s return party. Hosea cracked open a keg of ale twenty minutes ago, the musky smell of campfire smoke is in the air, and now almost everybody is either on their way to being drunk or already there, laughing and singing like they don’t have a care in the world.

To be fair, getting Jack back is the best thing that’s happened to them in a while. For the past week, Abigail’s been either crying or snapping at him, and he’s been powerless to do anything. Now, with Jack safely tucked into bed upstairs and a beer bottle in her hand, she’s laughing. It’s a nice sound to hear. 

John lets a smile quirk up his lips. Things have been--well, not  _ great _ , exactly--but they’ve been good. John’s been making an effort to be with Jack more, taking him on horse rides once in a while and even playing pretend at his request. It’s surprisingly fun. Dutch hasn’t been too happy with him, which is strange, but John doesn’t mind. He has other people to remind him that he’s doing the right thing. Arthur, for example, told him one evening that he’s been noticing what John’s been doing--in his own way, which involved a lot of awkward, gruff admittances that sounded more like he was accusing John of something instead of praising him. And Abigail is here with him now, and while John’s well aware he has a lot of work to do before she fully forgives him, right now she’s looking at him with the brightest smile he’s seen in a long time.

“John,” she laughs, “John, do you remember when you were first sweet on me, and you wanted to take me on a real, honest-to-goodness date? And Arthur got mad at you for stealing his money to pay?”

John takes a swig of his own bottle. “Ha, I sure do.” Arthur had only found out about it the morning after John had escorted Abigail back into camp, when he’d gone looking for some spare change and found his pockets empty. It hadn’t been John’s fault that food was too damn expensive in the city, but Arthur hadn’t been so understanding. “He told me the only thing stopping him from knocking my teeth out was that it would upset  _ you _ .”

“I reckon he should’ve done it,” Abigail said. “It would’ve been more entertaining than that movie we went to, that’s for sure.”

“Hey, there weren’t exactly many options to choose from, okay?” John pauses for a moment, trying to look indignant, but then she breaks out into a grin and he laughs. 

Further into camp, Miss Grimshaw and Karen launch into a bawdy song that makes John glad Jack’s out of earshot. Javier is still strumming on his guitar. Bill is throwing his weight around, as he usually does while drunk, and Hosea is engaged in some sort of philosophical debate with Dutch. It’s so familiar, all of it, yet also something John has missed dearly.

He takes a deep breath. This is Abigail, he tells himself. No need to be scared.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hm?”

“I was just thinking...uh, that maybe I could start sleeping with you and Jack. In one of the rooms.” When she blinks at him, mouth slightly open, he hurriedly adds, “Not if you don’t wanna or anything, it’s just--”

Bill snarls something in the background, but John pays no mind. He continues looking at Abigail.

“Like a family?” she asks slowly. “A normal family?”

John watches as Bill proceeds to punch Reverend Swanson square in the face, sending the other man flying, then stumble off in a drunken haze. Nearby, Tilly and Mary-Beth continue their game of dominoes like nothing’s happened. He has to suppress a chuckle.

“I mean, I wouldn’t go that far. Look around, Abigail. Ain’t nothing normal about any of this.”

She studies the camp, taking in the scene. Her face darkens. “You know, you’re right,” she says. “Stupid of me to ever think otherwise.”

A sour expression takes over her face, and before John can say anything, she stands up with her beer bottle and storms off inside the house. 

“What--hey, Abigail!” He opens the door and walks in after her. She stomps up the stairs, each step creaking dangerously. He holds the banister with one hand and gestures at her with the other. “What did I say?”

From atop the stairs, she glares down at him. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe it was the fact that you wouldn’t go as far to call us normal?”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” he pleads.

“Oh yeah? Then what did you mean?”

“Well,” he fumbles, “that we ain’t never gonna be one of those picture-book families. You know, the ones with a little log cabin in the prairie or whatever. I mean, look around.”

Abigail doesn’t look around. She glares straight at him. “I know damn well how we live!” she snaps. “But...ain’t I allowed to  _ want _ ?”

John swallows what he was going to say and breaks her gaze. “I...uh…”

“Go on. Have fun at the party. Clearly that means more to you than being a father.”

Before John can stop her, she slams the door into her and Jack’s room. It would have more of an impact if the door isn’t rotting and nearly falling off the hinges. John just stands on the stairs for a minute. How the hell did he mess that up? He didn’t expect Abigail to embrace him with open arms, but given her mood he thought she would’ve at least been receptive to the idea. And he’s right, isn’t he? There’s no way that they can have a normal family amidst this gang of outlaws. It’s ridiculous.

If she wants him to go back to the party, he will. Sarcasm be damned. John walks down the stairs and out of the house. The party hasn’t really changed. He grabs another bottle of beer and sits down at a table with Karen and Miss Grimshaw, who are in the middle of belting out yet another song. Considering how the two women spend most of the day yelling at each other, he’s not surprised at their impressive lung capacity. 

He would talk to Hosea, but Hosea’s still talking to Dutch, and letting Dutch hear about his problems with Abigail might just make him get laughed at. Javier is absorbed in his guitar, so he’s out of the question too. John doesn’t want to talk to any of the girls, either. Gossip travels quicker than wildfire in camp, and this particular brand of gossip would just find its way straight back to Abigail.

Arthur, he thinks, Arthur would know what to do. The trouble is that John doesn’t know where he is. Shortly after the party started, he disappeared, and John hasn’t seen him since. Maybe he’s in his room?

John figures it’s worth a shot, so he bids Karen and Miss Grimshaw farewell and heads back into the house. He climbs up the remaining stairs, casting a last glance toward Abigail and Jack’s room. No sense in trying to go in there now--Abigail would just get more upset. He walks up to Arthur’s door, raising a fist to knock, when he pauses.

He swears he hears Charles on the other side. 

“...You think we can get away long enough without people getting suspicious?” a voice asks. A soft, deep voice. Definitely Charles.

There’s a laugh, then, “Pretty sure everyone’s too drunk to care. Hell, we could be makin’ out half a foot--”

“Alright, alright. Just kiss me, will you?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

John stands in stupefied silence as the talking is replaced by other noises entirely. It’s Arthur. Arthur and Charles. Arthur and Charles, together in Arthur’s room. Is this why the two of them have been acting so weird lately? Or why Arthur was so reluctant to let him tag along on one of his and Charles’s hunting trips a few days ago? Was that even a hunting trip, or just an excuse to get away from camp? 

Without even thinking about it, he puts his eye to a crack in the wood, peering into Arthur’s room. He has to know if Arthur is doing what he thinks he’s doing.

In retrospect, it should’ve been obvious. But still--as John sees Arthur leaning against the wall, one arm flattened behind him and the other wrapping around Charles’s neck, eyes blissfully closed,  _ kissing _ \--he almost falls on his ass in surprise. Then Charles caresses Arthur’s face, running a thumb across his cheek before dipping his head down to press his mouth to Arthur’s neck, causing Arthur to let out a breathy sigh. Charles lets out a low laugh against Arthur’s skin. 

John immediately decides to run down the stairs and pretend none of the last minute ever happened. 

But as he takes a step, the floorboards creak. Right outside Arthur’s door.

“...Did you hear that?”

“Yeah. Hang on.” 

He needs to run,  _ now _ . Not waiting a second longer, John makes a break for the stairs. He rushes down, fast enough that he almost misses a step. It’s almost enough to get down a whole flight before Arthur’s voice comes from behind him.

“John! Hey, was that you back there?” He’s standing at the top of the stairs, the top button of his shirt undone, his hat lopsided. John swallows. Does Arthur know what he looks like right now?

“No,” he says. “I dunno what you’re talking about.”

Arthur narrows his eyes. Then he sighs and walks down to join John, the stairs creaking with every step. “You lyin’ to me?”

“Of course I ain’t lying!”

“Uh huh.” Arthur doesn’t look convinced. Inside his mind, John berates his inability to keep a straight face.

“Look, I swear I didn’t see nothing! It’s just, you know how the walls here are thin, and I can’t help but--”

Arthur claps a hand on John’s shoulder. With an iron grip, he starts marching them both down the stairs, to the first floor, and towards the back door of the house. “I think you and I need to get somewhere private. Just in case I gotta tell you somethin’ that ain’t fit for a lady’s ears.”

They emerge facing the muggy land behind the old mansion, where nobody bothers going unless they feel like taking a swim in a cesspool of muck. Arthur lets go of John’s shoulder and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Wanna tell me why you were prowlin’ around outside my room like an overgrown swamp alligator?”

John winces. “Well, I was looking for you, and like I said, the walls are thin, so I just happened to hear...uh…”

“Hear what?” Arthur asks after John trails off. He looks like he’s expecting a certain answer, and bracing himself for it. 

“...Well...you and, uh, Charles…” John stares at the swampy ground, not daring to meet Arthur’s eyes. “...kissing?”

“Kissing,” Arthur deadpans. “You heard noises and assumed we were kissing.”

John lets out a nervous laugh. “I didn’t  _ assume _ , Arthur, it was pretty clear when I saw--”

“Oh, so you saw us?” Arthur asks, raising his eyebrows. “Damn. These walls are thinner than I thought.”

John curses himself from inside his head. He wasn’t supposed to say that. Before he can make any sort of excuse, Arthur scuffs the ground with his shoes and looks at John from under the brim of his hat. A moment passes where John stares back. 

“Listen,” Arthur says. His voice is low and rough. “I ain’t gonna pay attention to you if you want to raise hell about it. Charles has enough on his plate without you kickin’ up a fuss, and frankly I do too. If you have a problem with us, just--”

“Wait.” John can’t quite comprehend what he’s hearing. “You serious?”

“What--” Arthur lets out a disbelieved laugh “--of course I’m serious, John, this ain’t a joke to me.”

John has to stop and think to himself for a second. Does Arthur really think he would throw a fit over him and Charles? Is that why he dragged him all the way to the back of the house, where their only audience would be the swamp animals? The very notion makes John want to shake some sense into him. Who does Arthur think he is? Micah? 

“Come on, Arthur,” he protests. “You  _ know _ I don’t care about none of that stuff.”

“How was I supposed to know that? I don’t exactly recall the topic comin’ up in conversation.”

“Well, it’s coming up now!”

Arthur continues glaring at him from under his hat, reminding John of a cornered animal. John hardly knows what to do with that information. Of the two of them, it used to be Arthur who did the intimidating, always over some small offense like John swiping his journal or refusing to bathe for a week. Now the roles are reversed, and John doesn’t know why. Or rather--he knows why, but the reason is all wrong. 

Arthur clenches his jaw and his brow furrows. Finally, he takes a breath in. 

“You don’t mind?” he says. There’s a softer tone to his voice, which catches John off-guard.

“I don’t mind,” John echoes. After a moment, he adds, “although I pity Charles for having to deal with your morning breath.”

A second passes. Despite the tension from before, Arthur huffs a laugh. Then another laugh comes out, and Arthur looks up at the night sky. “God,” he says, blinking very quickly, “God, I--” he pauses, and lets out a sigh. There’s a chair on the ground next to them, and Arthur slumps into it. He sits there, head bowed, and sighs again.

“...You okay?” John asks.

Arthur gives a dismissing wave. “Sure.” He takes off his hat and runs a hand through his hair. The swamp is loud with the chirping of crickets and birds, as it always is in the night, and John is grateful for something to fill the silence. 

Somehow, John can’t say he’s surprised. He’s never thought that Arthur was the type to take a liking to men, but the thought of him and Charles together makes sense. The two of them always sit together around the campfire, passing a beer back and forth in companionable silence. Sometimes they share looks that John can’t figure out. All this time, he’s just thought they were good friends, but now that he knows better, everything seems clearer. And he’s glad, in a way, that it’s Charles. Charles is a good man. Good enough that it seems obvious that Arthur would care for him.

A thought seems to come to Arthur, and he looks up at John. “You won’t bother Charles about this, will you?”

John snorts.  _ Yep, Arthur definitely cares for him _ . “Charles happens to be my friend too,” he says. “So, no. Obviously not.”

“That includes teasing.”

John tilts his head and fights the grin threatening to appear on his face. “So you’re saying I can’t tell him about how you rode headfirst into that tree one time and broke your arm?”

The corner of Arthur’s mouth lifts up. “Not unless I can tell Abigail about that time I tried teachin’ you to swim.”

At the mention of Abigail’s name, John’s mood sours. He nearly forgot about that amidst everything else that was going on. 

“Jesus, John, you look like I threw a bucket of cold water in your face,” Arthur says. “Did somethin’ happen?”

John has the urge to play it cool about Abigail’s argument, but it’s not like he’s going to get anywhere by himself. It’s what he wanted to talk to Arthur about in the first place, after all. Although that subject was quickly replaced by another.

“She…” he starts, then shrugs. “I dunno. I was going to ask you for advice, but now I’m thinking you might not be the best one to talk to about women.”

“Oh, don’t you even start,” Arthur grumbles. “I had Mary, didn’t I?”

John huffs. “Yeah, and we both know how that ended. You still owe me, by the way.”

“You mean for the bar of chocolate? The one that melted all over my bedroll? Sure. I’ll just go get a bowl of Pearson’s stew and dump it straight on your head--”

“Okay, okay!” John raises his hands defensively. “Damn. Can I just...explain the situation?”

Arthur makes a show of crossing his arms and putting on a serious face, then nods. “Shoot.”

“I told her I wanted to start sleeping with her and Jack in their room. Kinda like a family.” He pauses, gauging Arthur’s face for any sort of reaction. But Arthur simply gestures at him to continue, so he does: “But then she told me we could be like a normal family, and when I said that ain’t exactly possible, got all upset and said that I didn’t care about her. Like it ain’t just enough to offer to room with her, I have to be all excited about it.”

“Well, are you?” Arthur asks after a pause. “Excited, I mean.”

John looks at the mud staining his boots. “Sort of. Not really.” He worries his lip and digs his heels into the ground. “Mostly I’m just nervous.”

Arthur gives a short laugh. “Nervous? About what?”

“About...you know,” John says, gesturing helplessly. “Fucking up.”

“You ain’t gotta be nervous, John. It’s bound to happen one way or another.” At John’s deadpan look, Arthur continues. “And I ain’t sayin’ this just because it’s you. If you’re scared to mess up, you’ll be scared to do everything else too. Most of all what needs to be done. I mean, surely you’ve learned by now that runnin’ away from your problems don’t make them disappear.”

John bristles, but nods. “I guess,” he says. “But ain’t I right? How can we be a normal family?”

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. “It ain’t really about whether or not you three can ever be normal, John. It’s about whether you try or not.” He says it like he shouldn’t even have to explain it.

“Huh?”

“She knows you ain’t some magician that can whisk her and Jack away to a better life in thirty seconds. But I think she wants you to--I dunno, be open-minded to the possibility? Hell, I know more’n most people about not bein’ normal. Or at least, what people think of as normal.”

John frowns. “You do?” 

After a few seconds in which Arthur just stares at him, he remembers.  _ Right. Him and Charles. Charles ain’t white and ain’t a woman.  _ John is going to have to get better at this stuff. 

Arthur just sighs. “You know, Abigail ain’t gettin’ mad at you for no reason. She just don’t know the stuff that you’re tellin’ me right now.”

“How could she not know that? I thought it was obvious.”

“John, the only thing that’s obvious is that you don’t know how to talk to your own wife.”

That makes John scowl, but he can’t deny that Arthur’s advice is worth taking, so he shrugs. Then he hears footsteps squelching in the mud, turns his head, and sees Charles coming around the side of the house. 

“Arthur, there you are--”

Charles pauses when he sees John. He glances at Arthur, mouth pursed in some kind of wordless question, and Arthur shakes his head.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I told him. And he don’t mind.”

Something deflates in Charles, and John notices how he suddenly looks less like the serious man he’s presented himself as. Maybe he’s just imagining it, though. John can’t help but view him in a different light now--although he knows Charles is the same person as always, the knowledge that he was kissing Arthur just minutes before puts him in a different light. Not bad, by any means. Just different. 

Charles holds out a hand to pull Arthur up from the chair. “See,” he says to Arthur, “I told you he would understand.” He turns to John with a small smile. “Arthur’s been a bit worried about the gang finding out.”

“So have you,” Arthur grumbles.

“Sure. But not about John.”

John rubs the back of his head. He’s not quite sure if to take that as a compliment or not. “Well, uh, you got one down. So...congratulations?”

“Thanks,” Charles says. He sounds amused. Then his face becomes more serious. “We hadn’t really planned on telling people, though. So if you could, you know...” His hand remains intertwined with Arthur’s, the fingers brushing against each other, almost as if Charles isn’t conscious of doing it. 

John suddenly feels very out of place. Hosea’s always saying that in certain situations, three’s company, and the phrase never rings more true than right now. And John’s definitely the one who needs to leave.

“Sure. Yeah. Won’t say a word. You know, I should probably check up on Abigail,” he says, all in one rapid-fire stream that becomes increasingly more strained. Charles and Arthur share a look that tells John they definitely see the real reason for his excuse, valid as it may be. Once again, he’s reminded about how he’s a terrible liar. 

Arthur speaks up first. “Well, thank you, I guess. I--I mean it.”

“Of course.” John’s eyes flick between them, and he clears his throat. “I’m, uh, I’m happy for you two.”

Arthur scowls, but John doesn’t miss the flush on his face. “Yeah, yeah. Go get her, Romeo.”

John ducks his head, gives an awkward two-fingered salute, and turns around to head back inside the old house. Behind him, he hears Charles speak up in a confused voice.

“ _Romeo_?”

“I’ll tell you later.” Then Arthur coughs a few times, clearing his throat after. “I swear, this damn swamp’s killin’ my lungs…”

The rest of the conversation fades out into the background, although John’s tempted to hang behind and eavesdrop. He’s too old for that now, though, so he opens the door to the mansion and starts walking to the stairs. 

Running away won’t help anything. That’s what Arthur said, and that’s what John knows now. He’s done with that. Even if he and Abigail never make a real life for themselves, he wants to at least try. He wants to see her happy. It’s not much of a goal, but right now it shines before him. It guides him up the stairs and to her door. 

* * *

“John,” Abigail says. 

She’s sitting beside a sleeping Jack, the moonlight streaming between the holes in the bedroom wall and illuminating her with a pale blue glow. John is reminded of how the strain of the past few weeks has weighed on her, whittled her down bit by bit. But with Jack by her side, she looks more whole. The anger she’d had earlier is long gone.

She looks him up and down. “I thought you might come here with a peace offering.”

“Afraid not,” he says. He sits on the floor across from her and takes off his hat. “All I got to offer is myself.”

Abigail huffs and smiles a little. “Well, that ain’t much at all.” 

“I know,” he says, because he’s proven that to himself time and time again. It’s the one thing he’s been sure of this whole time. “But it’s yours, if you want it. If you’ll take it.”

She tilts her head, her eyes shining in the room like the glassy surface of a lake. Ancient and beautiful. A few strands of hair fall out of her bun and brush against her cheek, and John fights the urge to reach out and tuck them back in. “Do you want me to take it?” she asks.

“I do. Even though I don’t know if it will be enough.”

Somehow, when he says it, the admission isn’t nearly as nerve-wracking as he thought it would be. It feels natural, like he’s just talking about his day.  _ I did a lot of chores this morning. I brought you some stew. I’m terrified to be a father.  _

Abigail laughs, then, the sound ringing like a bell in the night. “Of course it’s enough, you silly fool.” She moves his hand to rest over his. “Keep talking. Please.”

John gives into his temptation. His fingers ghost against her cheekbone as he tucks her hair behind her ear, tracing his thumb against the side of her head. And he keeps talking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: accidental outing, referenced homophobia, referenced racism, alcohol mention
> 
> *bangs pots and pans together* CHARTHUR NATION RISE UP!!
> 
> I've been waiting to post this chapter for the longest time. I promised Charthur and I hope I delivered!! Don't worry, there will still be more Charthur content (in a way...) but this is definitely the most Charthur-heavy chapter. That being said, I hope I treated the accidental outing situation well. I'm a lesbian and drew on my own experiences with coming out to write this chapter, but if I wrote anything insensitively please do tell me! 
> 
> I also have a question: the next chapter is very short (like less than 1k words?) but I was thinking of inserting a flashback that would beef up the content a little. However, that means I wouldn't be able to get the chapter out on time. Would people be willing to wait? I've been very encouraged by the feedback on the last chapter (which I rewrote from scratch and had to delay) so I really want to try to deliver the best possible writing. You don't have to answer this question if you comment, I just wanted people's opinions.
> 
> Finally, thank you so much for all the feedback I've gotten so far!! I really, really, cannot express how much each comment means to me. It basically puts a smile on my face for the whole day. If you comment, you are an angel. If you don't comment, you are an angel too (but please consider telling me your thoughts)! See you all...soon? Probably in less than a week!


	8. A Shot in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start falling apart. Set both before the Saint Denis bank job and after, when John is in Sisika.

John eyes Arthur from where the other man is drawing in his journal. He probably doesn’t want to be bothered, but John figures he won’t get mad if the interruption is about something important. And it is--or at least John thinks it is.

As John sidles over to sit down on a crate next to him, Arthur snaps his journal shut and looks up with an exasperated expression on his face. “I told you, I ain’t gonna let you see inside.”

“Oh relax,” John shoots back, rolling his eyes. “I’m pretty sure the last time I asked you that was when I was fifteen. I was gonna ask about something different.”

Arthur’s eyebrows raise, and he stuffs his journal into his satchel. “Like what?”

John is silent for a moment. The muggy afternoon air feels stifling, even more so by the feeling of claustrophobia that comes with being in camp. Everyone’s close to one another, privy to everyone else’s business, and it feels like John can’t say what he wants to without word spreading around.

Still, he musters up the courage and speaks. “I had a talk with Dutch.” Arthur gives him a blank stare, so he continues: “He told me that I was starting to care more about my family than the gang. That I wasn’t...loyal.” Fiddling with a cigarette, he looks off to the side. “That ain’t true, right?”

“Of course not,” Arthur immediately says. “What the hell is Dutch thinking? That it’s a crime to be a father?”

John thinks back to what Dutch had told him only minutes before. _Remember where your priorities lie, son. It wasn't Abigail who saved your life all those years ago, was it?_ John hadn't known how to respond, because he was right. But Dutch had made it seem like he was the only person John was allowed to love. “The way he talked to me, it seems so.”

Arthur clenches his jaw and stares off into the distance. John follows his gaze, and realizes that he’s watching none other than Dutch, who’s in the middle of reading a passage from one of Evelyn Miller’s books to Lenny. A few months ago John would’ve called it endearing--now it just looks patronizing.

“That bastard,” Arthur mutters. 

The words are biting and cold, which isn’t rare for Arthur except for the fact that they’re directed at Dutch. John tilts his head. “It really makes you that angry? I mean, I’m a little confused, but--”

“You don’t understand, John.” Arthur breaks his gaze, furrows his brow, and sighs. “He said the same to me.”

John isn’t sure if he heard him right. Arthur, the man who’s been in the gang for over twenty years, accused of not being loyal? If Arthur isn’t loyal, then who is? 

“He told me I’m gettin’ distracted, that I don’t take him seriously anymore.” Before John can speak up, Arthur continues in a quiet voice. “I--I ain’t sure, but I think he might know. About me and Charles.”

A pit suddenly grows in John’s stomach. “Shit, Arthur.” Dutch doesn’t seem like the type to discriminate, but what if he is? A collection of scenarios flash through his mind: word spreading around faster than wildfire, reaching everyone from Tilly to Micah. Charles being thrown out of camp. Arthur being thrown out of camp. John swallows and looks at Arthur. “You need me to, I dunno, talk to him?” The trouble is, what would he even say?

“No, it ain’t like _that_ \--or at least I don’t think so.” Arthur says. Some of the tension leaves John's shoulders, but some still remains. “It’s just that he’s seen me with Charles more than I guess is appropriate, and recently he’s been tellin’ me these things, and I guess I can’t help connectin’ the dots.” After a moment, he huffs. “So, I guess we’re in the same boat. More or less.”

Despite his casual tone, Arthur sounds strained. He sounds solemn. And John feels an indignation rising in him, directed specifically at Dutch, threatening to break his composure and send him stalking off to give him a piece of his mind. But he doesn’t. “I still don’t believe it,” he says eventually.

Arthur coughs a few times, pressing a hand to his mouth and only taking it away when the fit stops. He’s been doing that more often over the past week. After a few seconds, he clears his throat. “Well, I do.” He wipes his hand on his jeans. “Things are changin’. Dutch is...I think we’re losin’ him.”

“So what do we do?” John asks, trying not to let his voice sound nervous.

“You think I got the answers?” Arthur says. “I don’t know, not any better than you. I just don’t know.”

John blinks a few times. He thinks he can count the number of times Arthur has said _I don't know_ and meant it on one hand. Arthur's always known what to do, even if what he's wanted hasn't the best course of action. He's always been the one with the answers, almost as much as Dutch has. But now, Dutch's answers aren't what John wants to hear, and Arthur just looks tired. And seeing that is what scares John the most.

“Just one more bank job,” he says weakly.“We’ll get through it.”

Arthur isn’t looking at John when he responds. “I sure hope we do.”

* * *

Sunlight streams into John’s cell, and the dream stops. John’s used to it by now, somehow, even though it’s only been a week since he was arrested and less than that since the government decided where to dump him. Only a week, but it feels like a lifetime.

He’s alone in the cell, maybe because they’re afraid he’ll murder anyone stuck in there with him. The thought makes him want to laugh. He isn’t a crazed serial killer, and the fact that he can cow most of the guards here with a single look is ridiculous. Not that he has any power over them. How can he, when his hands are in chains and the most he can do is pull down his pants to take a piss?

They’re going to kill him. The guards have been plenty clear about that. Whenever he spits out a retort, rises to the bait of their mocking, the response is always the same. _Will those be your last words?_ They say it with such smugness that John wants to knock their teeth out. Instead, he shakes against his chains and obeys them, going wherever they ask, doing whatever they order. The guards are right, after all--any phrase could be his last. And, despite everything, the thought terrifies him.

He has to believe Dutch will get him out.

But would Dutch do that, when he didn’t even lift a finger to stop John’s arrest? John remembers how he yelled for him, the lawmen pinning him against the wall and wrangling handcuffs on his wrists. There was no response. Dutch didn’t come. John thinks the Dutch from a few months ago would’ve come. He hadn’t wanted to believe Arthur’s words about them losing him, but now the evidence is as clear as day. 

John thinks of Hosea, of hearing that gunshot and watching him writhe on the cobblestones like a lame horse, wheezing out his last breath. It’s strange. John’s heard thousands of guns go off, made thousands of shots himself. Gunshots have always beaten out the uneven rhythm of his life. Yet that one shot replays over and over in his head, scaring him into sleep at night and jolting him awake in the morning. One shot, and suddenly everything collapsed, Lenny screaming Hosea’s name, Javier digging his nails into his suit. Arthur looking like he was the one who was dying. It was the most terrible thing John’s ever seen, and it was only one shot. 

Did Abigail get away, at least? Does Jack still have a parent? Thinking of her imprisonment is bad enough--thinking of her death makes him want to vomit his meager rations all over the concrete floor. But he doesn’t, of course. They barely feed him anything here, and he has to take what he can get.

He wouldn’t be surprised if, in the event that he got out, there isn’t a Van der Linde gang anymore. 

A guard comes up to his cell, fiddles with the lock, and swings open the door.

“We got work for you in the yard.” Short and sullen. John shuffles into the hallway, the guard’s eyes on his back. 

“Not so talkative now, are ya?” the guard drawls. “You’re all like that. Then once the rope dangles over you, it’s like you can’t shut up.”

John grinds his teeth to keep himself from talking back. It wouldn’t do him good anyway. The guard leads him outside, and the sun beats down on him relentlessly, making the sweat soak under his arms and across his back. There are other prisoners already laboring in the fields, digging trenches for God knows what reason. The guard shoves him towards a shovel--rusty and falling off the handle, no better than a wooden spoon for digging. John, still in his handcuffs, picks up the shovel and sinks it into the dirt. Sweat beads on his brow and trickles into his eyes. It makes the shovel slip out of his hands. It doesn’t stop angry red blisters from forming, only noticeable after the first hour but then refusing to be forgotten. 

There are many things, John thinks as he shifts against his chains, that refuse to be forgotten.

* * *

John looks at Hosea, not quite believing what he’s hearing. “Really?” he asks. “You want me to leave?”

“Well, maybe not right this moment, but...I do.” Hosea takes a drag of his cigarette and exhales the smoke into the air. Mosquitos, attracted by the sweet scent, buzz around their heads, only darting off into the rest of camp when John waves his hand in the air. 

“I don’t understand. Why? What about the bank job? Ain’t that going to bring us money?”

Hosea laughs dryly. “Of course, John. We’ve spent weeks planning, the pay’s got to be great. But think bigger than that.”

“Bigger than what?”

“Than getting the next score. I mean, look at how many people we have.” Hosea gestures to the rest of camp: Miss Grimshaw ordering the ladies around, Sadie casually polishing her gun, Lenny burying his nose into a book, Javier cleaning his boots with a rag. Charles is steadily chopping wood, and Arthur watches him with an indescribable expression. John is reminded of how the gang started growing ten years ago, and never stopped. While he’s thinking, Hosea continues. “I’m optimistic about the money, but not optimistic enough to believe it’s enough to give all twenty or so of us a comfortable retirement. Not like Dutch.”

“...So now you want me to leave?” John asks. He doesn’t understand the jump in logic. 

“I want you to think about what would happen if you did.”

John narrows his eyes. If he left, he could separate himself from the gang's fiery trail of crime and killing. Abigail and Jack could help him eke out an honest living, earning money through his own hands, and he wouldn't be a wanted man anymore. But, on the other hand, Dutch would have one less gun. Less money would come in. He wouldn't just be leaving the gang--he would be abandoning them. In the end, John only lets out a chuckle. “Well, it would sure get Abigail to stop talking to me about it.”

“A woman wiser than her years,” Hosea says. He shoots John an amused look, and John rolls his eyes.

“Of course you would say that,” John says. “But--” he pauses, choosing to look at the ground “--I think Dutch would rather kill me himself than let me go.”

Hosea’s face softens, and he sighs. “He just loves you, is all.”

“You know, I think ain’t the Golden Boy anymore. Because Arthur said the opposite. ” Although John’s joking when he says it, the admission makes his heart sink. “Dutch has been acting real strange to me lately. Like I ain’t loyal, or doubting him, or whatever. You’ve seen it too, right?”

“I’ve seen...some of it,” Hosea admits. He looks like even saying the words pains him. “But that’s a problem I can deal with.”

John can’t help but furrow his brows. “You would do that for me? How?”

“I know Dutch better than anyone,” Hosea says. “Better than you, better than Arthur. If there’s anyone who he’ll listen to, it’s me.” 

A few seconds pass before John huffs and shakes his head with a smile. That’s the Hosea he knows: cool, confident, casually offering his support as if it’s nothing. “You always were too generous with me, old man.”

“And you were always honest,” Hosea replies. An amused twinkle dances in his eyes. 

“Despite your best efforts otherwise.”

“No, John. I know I’m a born liar, but I never tried to make you one.” The corner of Hosea’s mouth lifts into a smile, and then he grows more serious. “You know that, right? That I never tried to change who you were?”

John thinks back to his childhood. Or rather--the years after he turned twelve, because he thinks his childhood hadn’t really started until then. For a few years, it’s like he aged in reverse, learning how to play and have fun only after he learned how to suffer. And Hosea had been there for it all. So, after a moment, John offers Hosea a smile of his own. “Yeah. I know.”

* * *

A day passes like this: bent over the shovel, hunched under the scorching sun and feeling his shirt soak with foul-smelling sweat. With each strike of the shovel, he hears it in his mind--the gunshot. And with each gunshot, he thinks of Abigail. And Jack. Arthur. Dutch. _Hosea_. John grits his teeth and inhales sharply against the squeezing pain in his heart. Will things ever be the same again? 

There’s something on the horizon--some sort of flying object. It looks like a hot air balloon, somehow, even though anyone in their right mind wouldn’t come within ten miles of this place. The guards start shooting at it, but before he can see what happens, a guard barks at him to drop the shovel and head inside. 

John takes one last look at the balloon, its whimsical pattern of reds and yellows that look like they’re from another planet, before turning his gaze to the prison. It’s impossible to move faster than a shuffle. 

A guard presses the muzzle of a gun to his back and shoves him inside his cell. “Stay inside,” he says. “Until we get the situation under control.”

John slumps onto his cot, hangs his head, and says nothing. There’s nothing he can say. Maybe this is his payback, in a way, for those precious moments of happiness throughout his life that he knew were too good to be true. The afterimage of the hot air balloon burns in his eyes as they drift closed. Against the grey walls of the prison cell, it’s vibrant. Beautiful. It is the dream he surrenders himself to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: implied homophobia, referenced death, confinement
> 
> This is definitely one of my more experimental chapters, I hope it reads smoothly and you didn't get confused by the flashbacks! I wasn't going to include the flashbacks at first, but the chapter was very short without them, and the flashbacks gave me an opportunity to flesh out the tone of the chapter a little more.
> 
> With that said: as you can probably imagine, things go downhill from here. If you came here for the fluff, there's not much more of that in later chapters. I think these last chapters are my favorites, but I completely understand if you don't want to read past here! (honestly, it's very relatable)
> 
> Also, I'm definitely rewriting next chapter. It's like once I rewrote one chapter, I can't stop rewriting the others lol. So it might take me more than three days to get it up but I will try my best to make the wait worth it!! Everyone who's commented so far has been so incredibly sweet, like I can't even explain how much I appreciate you guys :") Every reaction touches my heart and makes me grin like an idiot. You all motivate me to make each chapter better and better! I'm so grateful!!!


	9. Carry the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Arthur go on a fishing trip, leaving the opportunity open for private conversations. Set after the mission where John and Arthur blow up a bridge and before the final mission in Chapter 6.

In a way, John was right. He got out, and there isn’t a Van der Linde gang anymore. There’s still a camp, and there are still people, but it’s nothing like how it used to be. Abigail told him how Miss Grimshaw blasted a hole in Molly’s stomach in broad daylight. And now Karen’s more drunk than sober, Javier’s guitar lays abandoned, and Micah prowls through it all like a stinking yellow panther. 

He’s surprised Dutch didn’t put up a fight when he told him he was going to go fishing and would be gone for a day or two. They need the food, but at this point John thought Dutch valued loyalty over everything else--even survival. Maybe it was the fact that Micah was practically tugging at his sleeve, impatient to go over some plan of theirs, that prompted Dutch to wave his hand at John and turn around, not even waiting for a response.

It doesn’t matter, anyway. As John saddled up to go out, someone cleared their throat behind him and he turned around to see Arthur, carrying his own fishing pole with a silent request on his face. John nodded, waited for Arthur to pack up Buell, and then they both trotted out of camp, the wind at their back.

Now Arthur’s riding in front of him. He said that he knows a fishing spot with an empty cabin to boot, and although it’s a few hours away by horse, the seclusion is more than worth it. Buell’s coat glistens in the afternoon sun. With each steady clop of hooves, a bead of sweat trickles down John’s neck and soaks into his shirt.

Arthur points a finger to his right. “Look, here we are.”

John looks--and sees a sprawling lake against a backdrop of rocks and pine trees, the water still as glass. Tucked in between the trees is a small log cabin. The exterior looks worn and scuffed, like whoever lived here did so for decades. 

“O’Creagh’s Run,” Arthur says. “I came here a couple times to visit a friend. Same one who gave me Buell, actually.”

John gives a low whistle. “This is a damn fine place. How’d you even find it?”

“Ah, I’ll tell you later. Let’s just get ourselves situated, yeah?”

They guide their horses carefully down the hill, John having to coax Old Boy over a few rocks, and eventually make their way to a rickety hitching post right next to the back of the cabin. The tall pines cast much-needed shade, and John sighs with relief as he mops the sweat from his brow. Arthur grunts as he dismounts Buell. For a second he makes no move to hitch the horse, instead leaning against the saddle and panting like he’s out of breath.

John hops off Old Boy and hitches him to the post in one smooth motion, then glances at Arthur. “Didn’t think the ride was that hard,” he says, trying to make his voice sound casual. “You tired already?”

Arthur straightens up and attaches Buell’s reins to the post. “Of course not. Come on, we’re losing daylight.”

John frowns, but Arthur either doesn’t notice or pretends not to notice. He steps onto the wooden dock right outside of the cabin, where there’s a rowboat bobbing on the water. Clambering into it, he waves at John. “Got the rods and bait?”

“Yeah, and the lures,” John says. He gets into the boat after Arthur, making it tilt from side to side, then pushes off the dock with an oar. They drift away with a quiet splash. John takes one oar and Arthur takes the other, and together they row further into the lake, the oars pushing the water away and to the side with every stroke. The rhythmic rippling of the water is soothing to hear, and John takes a moment to soak it all in: the cloudless blue sky above them, the cool water beneath them, and the occasional gust of wind that dries the sweat on his temples.

“Lets--let’s stop here,” Arthur says. He drops the oar with a splash and exhales a breath, which turns into a wheezing inhale. A few coughs work their way out, and he turns his head to the side.

“Uh...are you okay?” 

John watches as Arthur wipes his mouth with his hand and clears his throat. “Sure,” Arthur wheezes. “Just give me my fishing pole.”

Once again, John narrows his eyes, but says nothing. He hands Arthur’s fishing pole to him along with some bait, then attaches a lure to his own. After standing up in the boat and getting his bearings, he casts the line. There’s a faint splash as the lure lands in the water, and another one as Arthur’s lure does the same.

The sun beats down relentlessly. John’s never been a fan of fishing, given how it usually takes hours and that there’s the possibility of drowning, but the only other option for getting food is hunting with a gun and with the Pinkertons breathing down their neck it’s not a chance he wants to take. After a few fruitless minutes, he glances to Arthur. “Any luck?”

Arthur looks back and shakes his head. “Clearly not,” he says. John’s about to focus his attention back on his own line when Arthur speaks up again. “John, I--uh, I actually wanted to talk to you about somethin’. It’s kinda why I tagged along with you.”

The strange urgency in his voice compels John to listen. “Yeah?”

“Remember what I said earlier? About takin’ Abigail and Jack, and getting out of here before it’s too late?”

“I do. Why?”

Arthur pauses before continuing. “I just wanted to make sure you know that I meant it.”

Thinking back to that day where they’d blown up the bridge, John remembers how Arthur had phrased it.  _ It would make me feel...good _ , he’d said. John had done a lot of thinking since that day. He’d begun packing a bag--not with all of his family’s possessions, just the ones that he felt were essential. Often, he spent late nights with Abigail, holding her close and repeating their plan to run away if things ever got dangerous.

“Don’t worry,” John says. “I know. I’ve seen how Dutch acts now. All hunched over in his tent at night, not moving a muscle. It ain’t right.”

Arthur nods. “Funny you say that, actually, because I’ve seen it too. Reminds me a bit of my old man.”

“Your pa? How?”

“He used to get like that after a few drinks.”

John swallows. Nothing more needs to be said--he can figure out the rest. He thinks that Dutch would never hit him or Arthur, but he also used to think that Dutch could be counted on to save him. And if the latter proved to be false, John figures that the former would soon be as well. 

For now, though, both he and Arthur are far away from any threats. John feels a tug on his line, and he steadies his grip on his fishing pole before starting to reel the catch in. It takes a few tense minutes, but soon he pulls the fish out of the water and lets it fall into the boat with a wet slap. 

“Would you look at that,” he says. The fish isn’t large, but it’s bigger than John’s palm, and he considers that an accomplishment. 

Arthur glances over and grins. John realizes that there’s a little pile of fish already next to Arthur, the oily scales glimmering in the sun. For someone who claims he’s a terrible fisherman, Arthur isn’t half bad.

“Nice catch,” Arthur tells him. John can’t tell if he’s joking or not. “You--”

He’s interrupted by a cough. “Ah, sorry, I--”, he mumbles, but then another cough cuts him off. It turns into a fit, each ragged cough jolting Arthur’s frame and making him hunch in on himself. Suddenly he drops his fishing pole, fumbling around with his hand, and falls to his side. The boat tilts and rocks beneath them, nearly throwing John off balance.

“Arthur! Are you okay? What’s going on?” John kneels down and shakes Arthur’s shoulder, but he just keeps coughing. “Hey, say something!”

The coughs stop, which makes John sag in relief until he realizes it’s because Arthur’s unconscious. 

He needs to get them to shore, and fast. He needs to get Arthur to a--a bed, or to a fire, something that could stave off whatever is making him suffer like this. Grabbing both oars, John starts rowing with powerful, desperate strokes that rain lake water onto him with every pull. 

Arthur’s still breathing, although shallowly. There’s a thin coating of red on his lips and around his mouth. It’s on his hands, too. How did John not realize something was wrong? How could he have let things get this bad without some sort of explanation?

When they reach the wooden dock, John hauls Arthur over his shoulder and walks up to the door of the log cabin. He kicks it open with his foot, sees a dust-covered bed in the corner, and places Arthur on it.

He’s still breathing. John shudders a breath, glancing around the room to figure out what to do next. There’s a small table with two chairs next to the door, a wall with various hunting trophies, and a stone fireplace. 

The first step is to build a fire. John throws a few logs into the fireplace and strikes a match. It takes him a few tries because his hands are shaking so much, but eventually a tiny flame appears, and he tosses the match into the logs. Soon, a fire roars in front of him.

A groan comes from the other side of the room. John rushes over, and Arthur stirs. He coughs a few times, spitting into his hand, and only then opens his eyes.

His gaze lands on John, and he frowns. “...What happened?” His voice comes out scratchy and weak.

John blurts it out before he can stop himself. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“What?”

“You mean you don’t remember?”

Arthur slowly raises himself into a sitting position, takes a look around the cabin, and finally lets his gaze land back on John. He seems to understand something in that moment. A sigh escapes him as he shakes his head. “Just a coughing fit,” he says. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

John can’t believe what he’s hearing. “You call passing out fine?” There’s a long, heavy silence as Arthur looks down at his feet. He isn’t telling me something, John thinks. There’s something he doesn’t want me to know. “I ain’t stupid. You’ve been like this for--for weeks,” he continues, remembering all the little coughing fits that he’d previously brushed aside. “I asked what’s wrong with you. So tell me.”

“I’m dyin’, John.” 

The admission is so soft and brief that John almost doesn’t hear it. And when he realizes Arthur really did just say that, he laughs. “...What?”

But then he looks at Arthur, and realizes that he isn’t joking. It’s hard to miss the splotches of red on his skin, the deep bags under his eyes, the sallow, sunken cheeks. He’s noticed it before, in passing, but he’s never really thought about it. Now it seems obvious. All the signs, laid right out before him, and Arthur had to point it out himself for him to realize. 

A deep pit worms its way into John’s stomach. Part of him wants to bolt for the trees and not come back until he convinces himself it’s all a lie. He wants to slap Arthur in the face and yell for him to snap out of it. How can he possibly be dying?

“I got tuberculosis,” Arthur says, as if reading his mind. “Don’t quite know how much time I have. But it ain’t long.”

The only question John can seem to ask is, “You sure?”

Arthur gives a humorless chuckle and sighs. “Sure as can be. I ain’t...ain’t been getting better. You’ve seen it.”

“Because I thought you were dying before. After the meeting with Colm, when you got taken. But you woke up, and now--”

“ _ John _ .” 

Arthur’s looking at him like he’s the saddest fool this side of the mountains. “Don’t,” he says. “Please.”

A sudden anger flares up in John’s stomach, and he clenches his fists. No one should be giving up like this, letting their life go down the drain without even fighting back. “So, you’re sick. Fine. I can see that. But what about coming with me when I leave? You would be able to rest. I know Abigail wouldn’t mind. Charles can come too, if you want. Why ain’t you considering that?”

“I ain’t going to let two wanted men tag along and ruin any chance you have at survivin’.”

“Then how about just leaving the gang now, and I could catch up to you later?”

Arthur shakes his head. “I can’t afford to do that.” Once again, he looks at John like he’s stupid.

John doesn’t get it, though. He doesn’t get whatever cryptic message Arthur is trying to send. “What are you talking about?”

“You don’t understand, John.” 

He bristles and jabs his finger at Arthur. “Oh,  _ I _ don’t understand? I’ll tell you what I don’t understand. Why did you lie to me?”

“As if you ain’t lying to yourself!”

The silence that follows fills the room. John just hardens his gaze, but Arthur blinks and shrinks back, like the way he snarled the last sentence was nothing more than an accident. He coughs, only looking up after a few seconds.

“I just...I knew you would do this,” he says quietly. “That’s why I didn’t tell you. We both have enough to worry about.”

Both of them fall into silence again. The fire in the stone hearth crackles on, impassive and constant. John slowly lowers himself to sit in one of the dining chairs.  _ Arthur’s dying _ , he tells himself.  _ He’s dying and he’s leaving everything behind.  _ He repeats it like a prayer, not because he wants it to be true, but because he knows that it is true and there doesn't’ seem any other way to make himself believe it. The minutes drag on, the fire sputters, and this is what John tells himself.  _ Arthur is dying _ .

Eventually, the sun starts sinking behind the trees as afternoon turns into evening. Rays of golden twilight pass through the curtained windows, illuminating glowing squares on the floor. Arthur takes out his journal and casts furtive glances across the room. John fries two fish for dinner. 

He puts Arthur’s portion on a plate and clatters it on the table, perhaps more forcefully than he meant to. “Here,” he says. It’s the first word out of his mouth in hours.

As they both eat, John keeps making accidental eye contact with Arthur, and he immediately looks away. The hot anger in his stomach dies down into a dull sort of misery. He doesn’t know what to do.

Halfway through the meal, John notices that Arthur’s only eaten two bites. When Arthur notices him staring, he sighs and rubs a hand behind his neck. 

“I’m...uh, I ain’t that hungry. Had a big breakfast.”

“I thought we were done lying,” John mutters. It’s without venom, but the way Arthur looks after makes John regret saying it.

After dinner is finished and Arthur’s uneaten portion is dumped outside, the sun is almost completely gone. Arthur suggests they turn in for the night so they can get an early start back to camp tomorrow. There’s only the bed that John dumped him on, so after a few minutes of convincing, Arthur agrees to take it. After all, they both know that he needs it more.

Sleep comes quickly--but only for Arthur. John hears quiet snores, and part of him is glad for something so achingly familiar. Lying on his bedroll, letting his gaze travel from dusty floor to ceiling and back again, he thinks that now would be a good time to let himself grieve. Except that doesn’t happen. It was like this before too, when Arthur was recovering from that shotgun wound, but also not--somehow, it’s different when John hears the news out of the dying man’s mouth instead of from someone else.

An owl hoots off in the trees. Barely audible is the sound of the lake lapping against the old wooden dock. The golden sunlight of before is replaced by the light of the moon, pale and ghostly.

Arthur wakes up and coughs. After a few moments of doing it softly, he props himself up on his elbow, wheezing and gasping after every breath. In the silence of the night, the coughs sound loud and ugly. Arthur gets to his feet, stumbles to the door, and exits the cabin, still racked with coughing. He doesn’t notice that John’s still awake.

It’s not long before John gets up too. Opening the door of the cabin, he sees Arthur sitting cross-legged on the wooden dock, facing the lake. The wood creaks as soon as John steps foot on it, and Arthur turns around in surprise.

“I--I’m sorry,” he says with his eyes wide, “I didn’t mean to wake--”

“You didn’t wake me.” 

“Oh. Okay.”

John walks over and sits down next to him, mirroring his posture. Now that the sun is gone, the air is cool and soothing, and the lake reflects the rich, inky blue of the night sky. There are also stars--little pinpoints of light, like someone poked a needle thousands of times into the atmosphere so that the irretrievable brightness beyond could only shine through in places precious and few. 

“Do you remember that time when I didn’t come back to the gang for a month?” Arthur asks. Not knowing where the question is heading, John nods, and Arthur clears his throat before continuing. “I had a son. He and his mother were killed. That’s why I left.”

Somehow, the news doesn’t phase John. It’s not like it’s the most surprising thing he’s heard today. It actually explains a lot of things: why Arthur got so angry at him over leaving Abigail, or why he clams up whenever John asks him how he’s so good with Jack. The month when Arthur had disappeared had been strange and worrisome, and when he finally rode back into camp John almost didn’t recognize him. He’d never asked about it, because something in his gut told him he shouldn’t, but now he understands why Arthur’s talking about it. There might not be another chance. 

“There are days when I wonder what would’ve happened if I’d left the gang to be with them, to raise my son. I think I would’ve been able to protect them better, maybe give them more of a life than they had. They needed me, John. Dutch, Hosea...not so much.”

Maybe Arthur has a point. This might be his roundabout way of telling him, once again, that he needs to leave. But still--John thinks back to the hazy days of his childhood, when the gang barely had five people, and all of their belongings could fit on a single station wagon. 

“Do you remember when I used to get nightmares?” he asks Arthur. “I would come to you because back then I was too scared to go to the adults. You grumbled and complained, but you always let me sleep beside you in the end.”

Arthur’s brows furrow, but he nods. “Of course,” he says. “I remember too. But--”

“ _ I  _ needed you.” 

It’s a long time before Arthur responds. When he does, it’s in a rough voice. “Yeah. I know.”

Crickets start chirping, drowning out the sound of creaking wood and pine needles brushing against each other. 

“Did you tell Charles?” John asks.

“Sure. He’s, uh, takin’ it well, I guess. All things considered.” Arthur sighs, and gets a look in his eyes like whatever he wants to say next is so silly he doesn’t know if he should bother. “John, I, well, I know he ain’t the type to need takin’ care of, but...if he, you know, needs--”

“Of course.” He doesn’t need to think about it.

“And…”

“Just say it, Arthur.”

Looking down at the water, Arthur gives a slow nod. “My horse, Buell. If you could give him someplace nice to spend his days, that would make me, well. Happy, I guess.”

John remembers how torn up Arthur got about Boadicea dying, so he would be lying if he said he wasn’t expecting this. “He’ll get all the peppermints he wants.”

“Actually, he prefers sugar cubes, so if you really want to spoil him just give him those.”

Arthur smiles when he says that, which makes John smile as well, and they sit there on the dock watching the wind create tiny ripples on the surface of the lake. This might be the last time they do this together, John realizes. This might be the last time Arthur witnesses anything so beautiful. And he wants to say that it’s okay, that everyone has to die someday, but the truth is that nothing about this situation is remotely okay with him. Not the fact that the gang is falling apart, not the fact that he has to turn tail and run. Not the fact that Arthur’s life is slipping away before his eyes. What John really wants to say is:  _ I’m so sorry that you’re dying. I wish you didn’t have to suffer. I promise I’ll make myself strong for you. _

Instead he says: “What about me?”

There’s a pause, then Arthur sighs. “Oh, John…” For possibly the third time that day, his eyes fill with gentle pity. “Goodness will find you.”

Seeing Arthur struggle to breathe right, seeing him sit there like a strong wind could blow him away, it’s hard to believe what he says. It’s hard to believe anything anymore--except the fact that nothing will ever be the same again. But Arthur meets his eyes and is steady. John listens because he speaks as if he’s saying the most obvious thing in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: referenced alcoholism, referenced child abuse, death, illness, referenced nightmares  
> aaaahhhh I'm really not quite happy with this chapter...but sometimes you just have to say "good enough" and post! As I promised, things get depressing and angsty. I'm aware of the style changes in this chapter, so I hope everything is paced well. 
> 
> It always bothered me how only a few people knew about Arthur's illness, or at least talked to him about it. I wish we could've gotten more comfort from the gang members, although I understand why R* chose not to include that. At least we have fanfic!
> 
> Fun fact: both the title and Arthur's last dialogue in this chapter are references to a specific book (it's pretty famous). If you think you know what it is, feel free to drop a comment! I love hiding little things like this in my writing. I also included two references to Isaac and Eliza in previous chapters, so if you didn't pick up on that it might be fun to look back! 
> 
> I'm always thrilled to hear the feedback you guys give. When I hit low points writing a scene, I often think back on the kind comments people leave (yes, I remember individual comments) and it gives me a burst of motivation. Thank you for reading!! See you in a few days! :)


	10. A Kind of Paradise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set during the Red Dead Redemption mission, the final mission in Chapter 6.

John feels his back slam onto the ground before he feels the actual bullet in his shoulder. 

The wound throbs and he puts a shaking hand to it. There’s blood. Nothing he isn’t used to, he thinks, but damn does it hurt, and he knows that if the bleeding doesn’t stop soon there’s a chance he could die. 

A few more minutes pass before John gathers the strength to stand up. His legs shake like he’s a newborn fawn, but he leans against a tree and waits for the dizziness to pass. He knows the drill. If anyone in the gang saw him go down, all he has to do is wait for someone to come get him. It’s always been like that. _We watch each other’s backs_ , Dutch had said. _We ain’t abandoning anyone._

John knows Dutch has already gone back on that once, but surely he wouldn’t do it again. That would be like tossing him aside, saying that the first time hadn’t been a mistake but a plan. Dutch is a changed man, but he wouldn’t sink that low. John whistles for Old Boy, just in case he can get a head start on meeting whoever is coming to get him. But his horse doesn’t come. 

The forest around him is still. Silence sits in the trees, and although John strains to hear the telltale clopping of hooves on the dirt, he can’t. Hesitantly, he calls out. “Dutch?” No answer. “Arthur?”

Blood keeps seeping out of the wound, saturating his shirt until it sticks uncomfortably to his skin. He sucks in a sharp breath. This isn’t good--he could die like this. Where is Dutch? 

Then he sees it. Two figures riding atop horses, coming straight for him. As they come closer, he can see that they’re Dutch and Micah. He slumps against the tree and laughs out of sheer relief.

“Over here!” he yells. “Dutch! Micah! I’m here!” 

Dutch’s horse stops in its tracks, and after a second so does Micah’s. John waves his good arm around, even though it sends a throb of pain through his shoulder. “Hey! Over here!”

He can’t see either man’s face from where he’s standing. Why isn’t Dutch coming? Why is he bending his head to talk to Micah? Why are they turning around their horses?

_Oh_. 

The horses gallop away before John can cry for them to come back. He can only watch, his eyes wide, as Dutch leaves. This isn’t happening, he thinks. This can’t be happening. 

But it is. And his wound isn’t getting any better. John staggers forward one step, then another. He needs to get to camp. At least, if he’s lucky enough to make it back in time, he can bleed out there.

He whistles for Old Boy again. This time, somehow, the horse comes. He looks no worse for wear, and stored on him are all of John’s guns. As he clambers into the saddle, John doesn’t think he’s been more grateful for anything in his life.

“Come on, boy,” he whispers. “We need to go.”

He still can’t believe it. Dutch was supposed to save him back there. He needed saving. He needed it, yet Dutch left him to die in the bushes.

“Goddammit.” John makes a fist around the reins, digging his nails into the heels of his palms. “Goddammit, goddammit, _goddammit_.” It feels like any moment, his emotions will crash down on him like a storm. He needs to hold it together. He needs to get back to camp.

Old Boy runs faster than the wind. He carries John across icy rivers, into the forest, through the winding hills leading up to camp. With every gallop, John’s shoulder leaks a little more blood. With every gallop, his gut clenches in anger.

As he comes up to camp, he dismounts Old Boy and hitches him to a tree. He takes his gun and presses his fist to his shoulder to stem the bleeding. 

There’s Dutch. And there’s Micah, Cleet, Joe, and John realizes that Arthur’s pointing a gun at all three of them. Micah’s pointing his back.

“Dutch!” John snarls. Everyone’s heads snap to look at him. Arthur’s eyes widen, and for a second his hands tremble around his gun. He looks like he can barely stand up straight.

“You...you left me. You left me to die!”

A few things happen after that. Dutch babbles out some excuse, as if there’s any excuse for leaving his own son to bleed out in the wilderness. Then, after a pause, Arthur renews his grip on his gun and tells everyone to choose sides. 

Micah shoots Miss Grimshaw.

There is no Van der Linde gang anymore, John realizes. This time in the truest sense of the word. So, as Miss Grimshaw vomits blood onto the grass, he limps over to Arthur and draws his gun. 

“John,” Arthur says, then coughs. “You alright?”

“Stop asking me that. I’m fine.” 

“I thought you were--”

There’s gunshots, and a voice booms out into the camp. “Put down your guns!” 

Arthur curses and pulls John behind a crate. Out of the corner of his eye, John can see Dutch, Micah, and everyone else scurry into the trees. Micah cackles and fires a few bullets, before yelling “They’re all yours, Morgan!”

John has half a mind to shoot Micah in the face himself, but Arthur steadies him with a look and a hand on his shoulder. “Focus. You ready?”

“To run?”

Arthur nods. “I’m gettin’ you out of here. Let’s go.”

Amidst the whizz of bullets, they flee into the caves behind camp. The ground is bumpy and scattered with rocks, making it hard to sprint without tripping on something. John hears people follow, hears the guns being fired one after the other. He’s never fought in the army, but this is what he imagines being in a war is like.

Everything is hazy with the damp miasma of the caverns. Arthur hauls himself onto a ledge, then falls to one knee, panting and wheezing. He wipes one hand across his mouth and extends the other to pull John up. “Come on, I got you.”

John pulls himself up without Arthur’s help. “I told you I’m okay,” he says. “Worry about yourself, Arthur.”

Arthur just stares at him for a second before shaking his head and turning to run. A bullet hits the rock next to John’s head, sending a shard of stone that rips across his cheek. He curses and continues running, feeling a trickle of blood drip down his cheek. There’s another ladder, and Arthur climbs up the rungs. John follows. 

The wooden planks paving the way out of the cave feel like they’re about to give out any minute, but there’s no other exit. So they inch across, one step at a time, until Arthur is the first to reach solid ground again and pulls John the rest of the way. 

There’s another ladder. A second passes, and Arthur waves John up. “You go,” he says. “I’ll cover you.”

“But you’ll be behind me, right?”

“Of course.” He finishes the sentence with a cough, which turns into another cough, and before John can ask if he’s alright Arthur forces him up the ladder. There’s blood staining his mouth. 

“Arthur, stay with me.”

“I know. Just let me--” he coughs again, wheezing in a breath. 

John reaches a hand down. “Just stop talking, I’ll pull you up, on three.” He counts down, and Arthur grips him with one hand and the ladder with the other, climbing up the rungs with John’s help. When he gets to the top, John lets go. “...I ain’t leaving you behind,” he pants. “We’re leaving together.”

“Okay, John. Okay.”

They keep running. John doesn’t know when it happens, but now he’s the one in front, with Arthur falling behind. And Arthur keeps coughing, keeps gasping for breath. John asks him if he’s okay, but after the third time he asks, Arthur snaps at him to shut up and keep running. 

When they emerge from the cave, the sky is lightening. Sunrise won’t be for another hour, but still--the scarce amount of light is a blessing. Arthur whistles for Buell, and John whistles for Old Boy.

As they wait for the horses to come, Arthur gestures at John’s shoulder. “Let me take a look at that,” he says.

“I _said_ I’m okay.”

Arthur opens his mouth, perhaps to argue, but all that comes out is a weak cough. He coughs again--the fit lasts for a minute, getting worse and worse, until he’s leaning against a tree for support. 

When the coughs stop, John hears hoofbeats come from behind them. He turns around and sees Old Boy, with Buell trailing behind, limping unsteadily.

“Arthur, your--” he starts, but Arthur’s already by Buell’s side, patting frantically around him for any wounds. He presses a hand to the horse’s torso, and it comes out bloody.

“ _No_ ,” Arthur whispers. Buell falls to the ground, collapsing on his side and blowing out air through his nostrils. His eyes blink rapidly. He whinnies, high-pitched and frantic. Arthur hovers over him with a stricken expression. “No, stay with me. Please.”

John knows the horse is beyond saving. How to tell if an animal is dying was one of the first things Dutch had taught him, and now it’s clear as day. Already, John’s broken one of his promises to Arthur--he couldn’t even do this one thing. The unfairness of it all ignites a bitter fire in his stomach. 

“I can do it if you want,” says. 

Arthur just shakes his head, kneels down next to Buell, and takes out a gun. “It’s okay.” While one hand strokes through the horse’s mane, the other levels the gun against his skull. Buell whinnies again, kicking out weakly. Arthur bends his head close and whispers. “Shh,” he murmurs. “I know. I know it hurts.” He puts his finger on the trigger. “Thank you.”

In the next moment, it’s over. 

The faint sound of gunshots and yelling is what jolts them back to the reality of the situation. John helps Arthur up, the man leaning on his grip so much that it scares him. Then Arthur coughs again.

“...We gotta go, Arthur,” John says. He hates to make him run like this, when he looks like every step drains the life out of him, but it’s true.

Arthur looks at John, making no move to start running again. “Listen,” he says. His voice is breathy and strained. “Abigail and Jack are safe. They’re at Copperhead Landing with Sadie and Miss Tilly. Just ride north from here, turn around at--”

“Why are you telling me this? Ain’t you gonna take me there?”

Arthur gestures at his dead horse, as if that explains everything. “I can’t, John.”

“Ride with me on Old Boy. He’s strong. He can take two, no problem.”

The gunshots grow louder, and Arthur takes off his satchel, pushing it into John’s hand. It’s heavier than John would’ve thought. “I’ll just slow you down,” he says. He looks at the cave they emerged from. “Let me hold them off. I want you to have a fightin’ chance.”

He unbuckles his gun belt, leaving only his revolvers and a rifle, and fastens it around John’s shoulders. After a second of consideration, he takes his leather jacket and hands it to him too. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” John hisses. 

“You need it more than I do.”

“I _said_ I ain’t leaving you behind. We’re getting out together on Old Boy. Come on.”

“John,” Arthur grinds out. “Go. Go on to your family. Don’t look back.”

John digs his nails into his hand. He thought they had more time than this. It had barely been a week since Arthur had told him, and the time had passed faster than he realized, even though he’d been more aware of each second than ever before. But still--he thought Arthur could at least have the strength to fight his way out of here, or barring that, to run. If Arthur has any strength left, John is determined to make him use it. He’ll wrestle it out of him if he has to. “I ain’t leaving you.”

“You have to,” Arthur says, wheezing a breath in. His voice is barely a whisper in the darkness. “Please. Don’t argue, just--”

John cuts him off. “No! Don’t you remember, Arthur? All those years ago? How when I came back to the gang, you were the only one besides Abigail who got mad at me? It was you!” He grabs Arthur by the shoulders and locks eyes with him. “You were the one who told me not to run away!”

The gunfire gets even closer. From this distance, John can see the way Arthur’s eyes are bloodshot, how his skin stretches paper-thin over his face. Without his guns and jacket, he looks like a shell of the man he once was. _Arthur is dying_ , John reminds himself. _Arthur is dying and leaving everything behind, and it’s all happening right this minute._ As if he needs a reminder.

Slowly, Arthur reaches up and takes off his worn leather hat. “You ain’t runnin’ away, John. You’re runnin’ _towards_ something. Something that...don’t include me.” 

He puts the hat on John’s head. And then he wraps John in his arms, even though Arthur is shorter, thinner, and weaker than he is. John feels Arthur’s palms press against his back. He feels Arthur’s chin rest in the crook of his shoulder. He feels the warm, soft heaviness of Arthur’s hat press down on his head like an invisible hand, shielding him from everything ugly and bad in the world. _Goodness will find you_ , he’d said. John didn’t forget. And he hadn’t believed him, not really, but now he does.

“No,” John says. It’s more of an instinct at this point.

“Yes, John. Yes.”

“I’m never gonna forgive you.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say that. I’m sorry too. For everything. I was so _stupid_ back then, I--”

“It’s okay. You were growin’ up, that’s all. It doesn’t matter now.”

John takes in a shaking breath. “I just--I wish that we could’ve--”

Arthur’s fingers dig into his back. “Me too,” he says. The Pinkertons are almost upon them, and the sky grows lighter with every second. “Go to your family, John. I know you can do it.”

“I love you.”

For a single second, John wonders if Arthur will pull back from the hug, stare at him, and burst out laughing. He wonders if he’ll point a finger at John, saying something like _look at you, little Johnny Marston, you fool. It took fourteen years for you to tell your own damn brother you love him._ He imagines a scenario where Arthur grins at John, a mischievous gleam in his eye, and reveals that he doesn’t have TB after all, that the doctor said he needs nothing more than a little rest to get his health back. Or a scenario where he’s so amused by John’s words that he decides on a whim to ride away with him on Old Boy, and at least he doesn’t have to die alone.

Neither of those things happen. As John gets on Old Boy, Arthur gazes up at him with a strange wetness in his eyes. He stands very still.

“I love you too,” he says quietly. “I do.”

A few things happen at that moment. The first is that a group of Pinkerton agents come crashing through the trees. After that, Arthur turns around to face them, readying his gun. Finally, John buries his face in his horse’s mane, takes a deep breath, and--like Arthur told him to--he leaves.

* * *

When Abigail lays eyes on him, she cries out his name and collapses into the nearest chair. Sadie’s eyes bug out, and Tilly immediately bursts into tears. Jack looks around with confusion, then goes up to his mother and tugs on her skirt.

“Papa’s here,” he says, pointing at John with a stubby finger. “Look.”

Abigail pushes herself out of the chair. John closes the distance between them, catches her in his arms, and rocks her against him. He strokes a hand through her hair.

“John,” she says again, and starts to cry. “Arthur told me you--that you were--”

“I’m here. I made a promise, didn’t I? I ain’t leaving you two. Never again.”

“You have no idea how scared I was.”

He presses his lips to her forehead. “I know.”

There’s a pause, as Abigail happens to touch the material of the jacket in her hand and glances at the hat on John’s head. She frowns, but then a realization seems to come to her. 

“Arthur’s dead,” John says. 

Abigail pulls him into a hug, rubbing a hand over his back. “Shh.” Now she’s the one carding a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, John. I’m so sorry.”

Arthur’s hat sits on his head and catches the first few rays of the budding dawn. And the world is suddenly awash with beauty and light. And love suspends in the air like a fragile melody. And John’s eyes fill with tears. And there is nothing to be sorry for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: death, illness, blood, injuries, animal death
> 
> ...Well. That was something. I don't think my writing will ever do the original game justice, but I will say that it was very hard to write and edit this because of all the sad memories I have of playing this mission. I completed the game a few months ago, and honestly it's affected me more than anything else in recent memory. I luckily haven't had any family members or friends die or go through a life-threatening illness, so seeing Arthur die was really, really hard for me! Maybe we could start a little therapy group in the comments lol. 
> 
> Only one more chapter left! The next chapter is actually my favorite, so I hope you'll like it as much as I do. I've had this chapter and next chapter sitting in my drafts for a long while now, so it's very exciting to actually be sharing them. As always, your comments flatter me like nothing else--I always treasure each and every one! 
> 
> See you all in a few days! Take care of yourselves :)


	11. Goodness, Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Charles have a conversation the night before they kill Micah. Set during the American Venom mission, the last story mission in the game.

John hands the bottle of rum to Charles, who takes a deep swig before sighing and wiping a hand across his lips.

“Damn, that’s powerful stuff.”

“Sure,” John says. “Found it on the corpse of one of them Murfree Broods.”

Charles raises an eyebrow. “Thought you said you were going straight?"

“Sadie took me bounty hunting a few times. I mean, I had to pay off all my loans somehow, right?” 

“I guess,” Charles says. He takes another sip of rum. The sun has long set, leaving behind a scattering of stars over the inky night sky. Sadie is fast asleep in her tent, since she has the last watch before dawn breaks and they resume their ride. John is already bone-tired, and they still have half the damn state to cross.

The little fire they’ve made crackles on, and Charles passes the bottle of rum back to John. The alcohol burns going down, but it’s not too bad, even if it tastes nothing like the beer he’s used to. Apparently he’s acquired a taste for hard liquor over the years. Before he knows it he takes a sip and nothing comes out of the bottle, and even turning it upside down only makes a single drop of rum gather on the lip. Charles looks over at him and smiles to himself, but John just ignores him and dips a hand in his satchel to rummage around for another drink. 

“Gotta have something with me,” he mumbles to himself. He starts taking out the random junk he carries around with him in hopes of uncovering a bottle of beer, or at the very least the flask of brandy he uses for disinfecting wounds. That stuff could strip paint off a wall, and as much as John knows he needs to be alert tomorrow if he’s to have any chance against Micah, right now getting drunk doesn’t sound too bad. 

He pulls out a few crumpled pieces of paper, two packs of waterlogged cigarettes he feels bad throwing out, and a few other things too. A tin of dried calendula, a corked bottle of smelling salts, and a beaded bracelet.

“John,” says Charles. He glances over and Charles is staring at the bracelet like he’s seeing a ghost. 

John looks at the bracelet and then back up at Charles. “What?”

Without showing he’s registered John’s response, Charles snatches the bracelet from the ground and cradles it in his palm. “You kept it. All this time.”

“Uh, yeah. I did. I dunno, I just found it there.” 

“No, you don’t understand.” John watches as Charles rubs the bracelet against his shirt, gently cleaning off the dirt from the glassy blue beads. Then, he sees Charles roll up his sleeve to his elbow. There’s a matching bracelet on his wrist. A cleaner, less frayed version, but an identical one.

Two bracelets for two people. John remembers the first time he found the bracelet buried at the very bottom of Arthur’s satchel, back when he’d felt strong enough to start going through Arthur’s things. He’d been too confused and exhausted to figure out what its significance was, so like almost everything else in there it got put back in and forgotten. But now it makes sense.

“Oh,” John says, forgetting his desire for a drink. “Charles, I had no idea.”

Something like a smile flickers across Charles’s face. Staring into the fire, he rubs his thumb across the beads. “I’ll never forget the look on his face when I handed it to him. He gaped at me like I was getting down on one knee right then and there, asking for his hand in marriage.”

That makes a chuckle work its way out of John. “Really?”

“Well, it was just a gift, but when you’re two men in a gang of outlaws any gesture of affection ends up feeling pretty bold.”

“Huh,” John says. Looking back, that should’ve been obvious, and he feels a little silly. “Guess you’re right.”

An owl hoots from on top of a pine tree. A few seconds later, a coyote yips, shrill and high-pitched, before snarling at something in the distance. When the sound dies down, Charles speaks softly. “He swore he would never take it off.”

The implications of that sentence hang heavily in the air. “Maybe he didn’t want it to break?”

“Maybe,” Charles says. “I hope so.”

Sadie groans and shifts in her sleep, unconsciously burrowing into her blanket. John, craving a cigarette, fishes around in his now half-empty bag for one and lights it. He brings it to his mouth, inhaling the smoke. 

After blowing out the smoke, he clears his throat and looks at Charles. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

John purposefully switches his gaze to the ground. “When...when you found him, did it look like...well, like he went down fighting?”

Perhaps it’s too invasive of a question--after all, he and Charles had only reunited a few weeks before, and although they’d been close, eight years have passed. John feels like the question may be too much even if those eight years had never happened. 

Eventually, Charles sighs. “Does it matter?”

“Not really.”

The fire sputters and sparks, and Charles reaches behind him and throws another log into the flames. It’s not like John blames him for not wanting to talk about it. He knows it was a stupid question. Still, making the trek to go after Micah has started to make his mind go to places that he’s learned are better left alone, and even though he tries to keep these thoughts to himself some of them slip out anyway.

Charles takes a look at John’s face and changes the subject. “You know, I meant what I said back there,” he says. “Sooner or later, I’ll leave for Canada.”

“What’s in Canada?”

“I don’t know. But--” he pauses, turning his head to the side “--I’m not coming back.”

“...Oh.” John tries to make his voice steady, to not have it falter after all this time keeping it strong. He swallows a few times, coughing a little on the cigarette smoke. His throat burns.

“I meant to tell you earlier,” Charles says, “I just--”

“It’s okay,” John says quickly. “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“Maybe not. But you deserve one.”

Both of them go quiet after that, John rolling his cigarette between his fingers and Charles squeezing the bracelet in his hand. It makes sense, John tells himself. Everyone has to move on eventually. Eight years is a long time to grieve. And, just as John deserves to know the truth, Charles deserves to be happy. 

“You’d be good at it,” John says. “Starting a family, I mean. Anyone would be lucky to have you.”

Charles huffs a laugh. “That’s assuming I live to meet them.”

Frowning, John takes a drag of smoke. “You planning to die soon?”

“Ha, no--not at all. Guess I just realized the kind of life I’ve chosen, and I figure I should be counting myself lucky for surviving this long in spite of it.” The slight smile from before returns, and he looks up at the sky as if seeing it for the first time. His lips press together. “I guess I just want to make it through tomorrow. That’s all.”

“You will,” John says. He doesn’t even have to think about it. “You have me and Sadie. We ain’t gonna let you die.”

Charles’s shoulders tense for a second, before he relaxes them. He looks so caught off-guard that it reminds John he’s been running alone for the past eight years. “Thank you.”

To be fair, John’s never run it alone, except if he counts his early childhood. For the most part, he’s always had someone to take care of him, whether it be his father, Miss Grimshaw, or Abigail, if she’s in the mood to. Miss Grimshaw was the strictest by far, always running after him to clean himself up or wash his greasy mop of hair--

John’s eyes go wide. He remembers something.

“Charles, wait. About the bracelet.”

Charles narrows his eyes in confusion. “What?”

“I know why Arthur took it off. It was--Charles, it wasn’t like you said at all--” John breaks off, suddenly starting to laugh. Charles looks at him like he’s finally gone mad.

“Uh...are you okay?”

John can barely stop himself from laughing enough to get a sentence out straight. He has to take a deep breath to calm down, and even then every word is punctuated by a chuckle. “He took it off because--oh God, I can’t believe I forgot this--because he dropped it in the stew pot, and it smelled so goddamn bad he was gonna take it to Miss Grimshaw for _cleaning_!”

A beat, then Charles huffs a disbelieved breath. “What?”

“It’s true,” John says, “he came up to me one day with the bracelet, all panicked, saying stuff like _Charles is gonna think I’m a grade-A idiot,_ and I was confused because I didn’t know what he was talking about or why you would care, but now I know it’s because you--”

“Because I gave it to him,” Charles finishes. 

Crickets chirp in the night. And after a tense pause, Charles starts laughing too, softly at first, but then the laughs get louder and harder, until both he and John are desperately leaning against each other for balance, wheezing and gasping for air, then looking at each other’s faces and bursting out again because of the sheer absurdity of it all.

“We were so stupid,” John breathes in between laughs. “So goddamn stupid.”

“I really thought…” Charles says, taking in a sharp breath and squeezing John’s shoulder. “I thought he didn’t--at the end, after everything, he didn’t--”

“He did, Charles. Of course he did.” John mimics Charles’s gesture, touching his shoulder through the soft leather of his jacket. “He loved you.”

The woods around them fall silent. Only the fire remains, crackling and popping as the flames slowly eat into the poorly-chopped pieces of wood. Hosea always used to say that fire is the most primal element, that being around a fire strips man down to his very core. Well, John thinks, Hosea’s right. He feels like he’s at the top of a mountain, exhilarated and devastated at the same time, like he’ll break apart if anyone touches him too roughly. A painful tightness forms in his throat.

“John,” Charles says. “Can I tell you something?”

“Anything.”

The other man closes his eyes, swallows, and blinks a few times before speaking again. “It took me a month.” 

“Huh?”

“To go back and bury him,” he says. “It took me a month.”

John slowly removes his hand from Charles’s shoulder and places it in his own lap. _A month_. What would even be left after a month? Almost nothing. Only the bones, and the clothes, and perhaps some semblance of cartilage if the temperature was cold enough.

“I didn’t recognize him at first. There was no jacket, no hat. Not even the bracelet I gave him. I nearly passed him by.”

“Charles…”

“You asked me--” Charles says, taking a shuddering breath in “--you asked me if he went down fighting. If his death was peaceful. And I know you said it doesn’t matter, but we both know that it does.”

“Charles, you don’t have to--”

He cuts him off. “I do,” he says. “I have to tell you. Because the truth is that I don’t know.” Charles touches a hand to his face and looks almost surprised when it comes back wet. “I wish I could do it over. But I can’t, and in the end it took me a month to get myself up on that mountain, and now when you asked that question I realized I _don’t know_.” 

John hovers his hand, wondering if touching Charles will cause him to break completely. “Hey,” he says, “it’s okay, just--”

The tent flaps in front of them open, and Sadie stumbles out, rubbing her eyes with the palm of her hand. She opens her mouth to say something, but she takes one look at the pair of them and whatever she was about to say dies on her lips. Instead, she sits down on the other side of Charles.

“Now what’s this all about?” she asks. 

Maybe Sadie’s more perceptive than John gives her credit for, because although neither John nor Charles give her an answer, she places a hand on Charles’s back and leaves it there. Minutes pass. John’s cigarette lays extinguished and forgotten at his feet. The fire burns on.

Eventually, after what seems like a century, Charles takes a breath. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

Sadie huffs a laugh. “Ain’t nothin’ to be sorry about.”

“I wish I could’ve...felt less.”

“We all do,” she says. “Never works out that way, though.”

John thinks that Sadie might be the strongest woman he’s ever met in his life. Charles just exhales and lets go of John’s shoulder. A minute passes before he opens his mouth again.

“After all this is over,” he says, “I’ll return the bracelets to him. Both his and mine.” His voice is barely there, just a whisper. And then he suddenly looks up from the fire and into Sadie and John’s faces, holding them in his gaze. “Will you two come with me?”

Sadie seems to put it together pretty quickly, and she gives a small, knowing smile. “You know damn well I will.”

“John?” Charles asks. “You don’t have to, but...it would mean a lot to me.”

There’s a beat before John can answer. It’s not because he doesn’t understand what Charles is asking--of course he does. He understands it better than anything else. It’s funny, in a strange sort of way, what grief has done to him, even as the years have slipped by one after the other like a sluggish, painful rain. Grief is a part of him. The first thing he says when he wakes up every day is not _good morning, Abigail_ or even _I’m starving_. The first thing he says is goodbye. 

“Okay,” John says. The conviction in his voice surprises him. He’s so used to being unsure that the easiness of this decision is strange. Oddly enough, it’s what Charles--strong, steadfast Charles--said earlier that ends up comforting him: _I wish I could do it over_. It’s true. More than anything else, John wants to return to the moments in his life he holds dear and live them all over again.

Charles looks at him with wide eyes, like he didn’t expect him to say yes, so John nods again for emphasis and repeats himself. “Okay.”

* * *

It’s the summer of 1886, and John is thirteen years old. To celebrate his birthday, Dutch and Hosea had pooled together the camp funds to buy him a new outfit: a rich indigo vest made out of the finest silk, sporting brass buttons both in the front and by the shoulders. The problem was that as soon as John had emerged wearing it, Arthur had burst out laughing, saying that if he saw John on the street looking like a gussied-up raccoon he would just rob him and save everyone else the trouble. That, of course, sent John into a sulk, which in turn led to Dutch ordering Arthur to take John out on a ride to “patch things up”. 

So they rode, Arthur on Boadicea and John on Old Boy, out of camp and into a rolling prairie. Now John is laying on his back in the grass, blinking up at the nighttime constellations. Arthur is right beside him.

“Hey, what did that old man say to you back there when we were riding?” John asks. “You know, the beggar guy?”

Arthur raises his eyebrows. “Oh, him? Ah, just some silly fortune. A load of crap.”

“Yeah, but what did he say? I wanna know.”

Wind blows across the field, making the blades of grass tickle John’s cheek. Arthur tilts the brim of his hat over his forehead and heaves an exaggerated sigh. “You always got your nose in my business,” he says. “Ain’t you got problems of your own?”

“Come on, Arthur,” he pleads. “Just tell me, it ain’t important.”

“I mean, it’s my fortune. I’d say it’s at least a little bit important.”

John frowns. “I thought you said it was a load of crap?”

A second passes, and Arthur mutters a curse under his breath. “Ugh, fine,” he groans. “He said...uh...that I was gonna get some bad news later on, but then it would be okay. Or, no, it was that after the bad news would be paradise.” He nods to himself. “Yeah, I remember him sayin’ that. Bad news, then paradise.”

“Wow,” John says. “I wonder what kinda news it could be.”

Arthur narrows his eyes like he’s thinking. “Maybe it’s that I have to be stuck with you for the rest of my life.”

John punches his shoulder. “Hey! You’re supposed to be patching things up with me. I heard Dutch say it.”

“Oh, I gave up on that,” Arthur says flippantly. “Face it, Johnny--we’re a lost cause.”

John’s slipping into another sulk when the wind blows again, making him shiver against the dirt. He doesn’t understand why Arthur won’t just make a damn fire, and whenever he’d asked, Arthur had just said that this was the way nature was meant to be lived in. Whatever that means.

“Hosea said we’re supposed to be brothers,” John says. “I thought brothers can’t give up on each other.”

Arthur suddenly gasps, bringing a hand to his chest. “Oh my God.”

“What? What is it?”

“It’s happenin’,” he says. “My fortune. It’s comin’ true already.”

John scowls. “Shut up.”

Arthur laughs, swatting John’s hand away. “Just go to sleep,” he drawls. “It’s damn late, and I wanna head back to camp early tomorrow.”

“But I don’t _want_ today to be over.” It sounds like a whine, which makes him cringe, but he really does feel this way. He’s never going to turn thirteen again. 

“There will be other days,” Arthur says. “Better days. You’ll see, John. Knowin’ that…” he starts, then trails off, breaking into a smile. “Hey, there it is again! That word.”

“What?”

“Paradise,” Arthur says. “Dutch always says, knowin’ good times are ahead is a kind of paradise.” When John doesn’t respond, he continues in a quiet voice. “So go to sleep, John. Don’t be scared of tomorrow.”

The breeze is soft and sweet. The grass flutters gently in the night. Cradled in the great open plains that stretch on like an ocean, John’s eyelids grow heavier and heavier, although he fights against himself to stay awake. Usually, he doesn’t pay attention to half of what Arthur says, but for some reason this phrase sticks in his mind: _Don’t be scared of tomorrow_. 

A future waits for him. There is not much that he knows and even less that he believes in, but he believes in this. Every second that slips by carries him further away from his childhood, from these precious moments that dissolve into memory as soon as they pass, but John can’t help but want it anyway--although he has the indescribable feeling that something is ending. 

It’s alright. He’s thirteen now, and the world stretches out its arms to meet him. There is nothing to be afraid of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: alcohol, referenced death
> 
> I...can't believe this is over. For the past two months, I've been obsessively writing, re-writing, and editing this fic, and it grew into something beyond my imagination. Almost nothing from my initial outline made it into the fic--actually, my original idea was to write a small oneshot where John tracks down Isaac and Eliza's killers to try to find closure. So I don't really know how I got here...but I'm glad I did! (By the way, if anyone wants to take that idea and write their own fic, please do!)
> 
> There are a lot of themes I've tried to weave into this chapter (and my fic in general) that I hope came across. Let me know if you want me to clarify anything, or if you have any questions! If prompted, I would happily speak for ages about my intentions and plans as a writer. 
> 
> I really would like to thank everyone who's commented. You have no idea how much every comment means to me! If you haven't and are on the fence about it, I would love to hear from you. This may sound obvious, but if you have thoughts about my fic but don't comment them...I have no way of knowing :(
> 
> Lastly, this is cheesy, but I want to dedicate this fic to my sister, who beta read the whole thing despite not having played RDR2. She's the John to my Arthur and the Arthur to my John (we're twins). I love her more than I can say.
> 
> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/namizaela) or [tumblr](https://namizaela.tumblr.com/)!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you have anything at all to say about my fic, I would love to hear it! If you comment, I will adore you forever. Have a wonderful day, be kind to yourself and others, and be happy. Sending my love!! :)


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